


Reading Your Love

by SucculentHyena



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Steve Rogers, Blood, Burlesque, Carnival, Curses, Fortune Teller Bucky, Fortune Telling, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Magical Artifacts, Panic Attacks, Past Suicide Attempt, Racism, Running away with the circus, Shy Steve Rogers, Slow Burn, Tarot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:22:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 43,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25436860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SucculentHyena/pseuds/SucculentHyena
Summary: Bucky’s job as a carnival fortune teller is the best he’ll get for his lot in life, and he’ll forever be grateful. It’s given him food, shelter, and a motley group of friends; but most importantly, it’s satisfied the tarot deck.When he reads the fortune of one Steve Rogers, however, the tentative life he’s managed is shaken.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 212
Kudos: 124
Collections: Stucky Bingo 2020





	1. Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My fill for the Stucky Bingo 2020, "Fortune Teller AU" square.

“Come on, it’s all fake psychic crap, you’re throwing away five bucks for nothing. Guy’s probably going say your chakras need aligning or something”

“It’s just a little fun! And you spent, like, twice that on the burlesque show!”

“Yeah, and I got to see something good! This is just wasting money on some feel-good voodoo crap!”

“What, so my interests aren’t important?!”

Bucky kept the polite smile on his face while the couple argued in front of him. He was used to skeptics insulting him, and he didn’t particularly care that they did. For the most part they were right to doubt.

Whether he got this customer or not didn’t matter, there were hundreds more people wandering around the carnival who might take interest in Bucky’s tarot reading- he always got a good haul on weekends- but their raised voices were starting to scare people away from his tent.

“You can actually get a lot of value from a reading,” he interrupted, keeping his voice amiable and his smile polite, “Whether you believe or not, the cards can highlight areas of introspection, or bring to light solutions you hadn’t consciously considered” he said, running through the usual spiel.

In all honesty, there was nothing more he wanted than to grab the woman’s shoulders and yell _He’s right! It’s all fake, get outta here!_ just to make them leave, but for many reasons he couldn’t. If he pretended really hard, he could say the main reason was his employment. His boss wasn’t paying for a fortune teller that discouraged customers.

Speaking of, he could see the boyfriend wasn’t interested in eating that line, so he fell on the other reason Fury had hired him over the standard tellers.

“But if it’s entertainment you’re looking for…” he added, making his smile turn coy.

Bucky took the tarot deck in his right hand and set it into an accordion shuffle, transferring the cards to his left in one fluid move that sent them flying across the two foot gap.

“Oh!” the woman exclaimed, eyes alight at the trick.

He usually added a little flourish to his shuffling, the result of years with nothing but the cards as company, and it paid off in his work. Of course, he wouldn’t pull out the works until they actually _paid_ for a reading, but the little trick gave them a taste.

Her boyfriend scoffed. “Whatever, go ahead and waste your time with this fairy’s card game, I’m gonna check out the freak show. Find me when you’re done”

“Jesus, you fucking _ass_ ” she hissed as he left, then turned apologetically to Bucky. “I’m _so_ sorry about him”

Bucky gave her a tight smile. “It’s fine. You wanted a reading then?”

She returned his smile excitedly, “Oh my god, _yes_ ”

She handed over the five dollars and took a seat across from him, the little table between them spacious enough to lay the cards on. The tent’s ceiling hung low with soft electric lanterns, and at night it gave the impression of mystery. Unfortunately, the effect was ruined by the early afternoon sunlight shining in from the open flap.

The tent was draped in purples and reds, and little tapestries hung down with occult symbols Bucky didn’t know the meaning of. All of it was for show, as was his appearance.

He wore a wine-red shawl over top his everyday clothes, the huge swatch of fabric covering enough of his shirt that he could get away with near anything as long as the neck was deep. He sat for all his readings, and the large tablecloth hid his legs entirely, giving him complete freedom of pants.

The jewelry he wore was all cheap, but it created the mystical effect his boss was looking for, from the little bands on each arm to the multitude of necklaces that hung down to the middle of his chest. Not even his hair was safe with the gold chains that bedecked his head like a flaccid crown.

The last touches to his look was the makeup and polish: concealer and blush to hide imperfections, a little gold eyeliner for flair, and a bright red on his nails to better draw people’s eyes as handled the cards.

It all made him look like the cheap, magical attraction he was- but that was part of the job too. Half the attractions were meant to be tacky, and the other half sleazy and scandalous. It was a gritty circus reminiscent of the early carnivals, with things for both children and adults- especially adults, if the burlesque shows’ popularity were anything to judge by.

“What are you looking for?” Bucky asked his current customer, starting up his shuffle. He warmed up with a series of accordion shuffled, sending the cards back and forth between his hands.

“Like, what I want to see in my future?” she asked, eyes following where his hands directed.

“If it’s the future you want to see, then sure. The cards answer questions; you can ask about the future, or the solution to a problem you’re having. You can ask about the past too, learn something you didn’t know” he said, and then cut the deck in three, flipping one of the cuts in the air while he ruffled the other two together, then cut them again and caught the third between them.

Her eyes were caught on the deck as he worked the cards. “I can ask anything?”

He pulled a card from the middle of the deck and flicked it behind his head. It flew in an arch that followed the path of his shoulder, and he caught it back into the top of the deck with his other hand. The woman’s eyes followed the movement raptly.

“Most anything. Some things the cards can’t answer, but I’ll tell you that and we can try another question. It helps if you keep your question specific” he said, then cut the deck in three again, making each cut dance between his fingers.

“And you can read the answer?”

Bucky nodded. “The cards give an answer, and I interpret them to you. Sometimes it’s vague and you may need to pull meaning from your own perspective, but sometimes its exact… It’s _very_ exact” he said pointedly. It was the best warning he could give that wouldn’t scare people, or make them immediately think he was crazy.

He cut the deck in two and did a basic ruffle, then cut it into four and made them dance between his fingers again. He flared them out like four flower petals before merging them all into one. Then he set the deck face-down in the middle of the table.

The back of the cards were all marked with the same decal. A deep, heavy black with a single red star at the center. Everyone always said the colour was an off-putting, though nobody could ever say _why_.

Bucky knew why.

But he had a job to do.

“Ask your question, then touch the top card of the deck. Take your hand away after that. _Do. Not._ _Draw the card_ ” he instructed, putting particular warning on the last part.

Her mouth screwed in a considering look, tilting her head from side to side as she thought. She glanced back at the tent’s opening and Bucky missed her expression, but her question didn’t surprise him.

“Should I break up with Jason?” she asked.

Bucky suppressed a huff. _He_ could’ve answered that. Unfortunately, she’d asked if she ‘ _should’_ break up with him. The tarot didn’t give opinions, but it _could_ point her in the direction of an answer.

He felt the familiar tug at his wrists, loose but commanding, as it was in most cases. He picked up the deck and turned the first card over.

Ace of Cup, inverted. _No kidding_ , he thought sardonically.

“You’re facing issues with instability in your relationship” he said.

He pulled the next card.

Two of Cups, inverted. “The issue is caused from tension and broken communication” Great, thanks. He’d seen that play out first-hand. He pulled the third card.

Three of Cups. _She will n_ _eed_ _the aid of_ _f_ _riendship_ _to overcome the problem._ Huh.

“You got a lot of friends?” he asked.

“I used to, but Jason takes a lot of my time, so I like, sorta stopped seeing them”

 _Oh honey, that’s a red flag_ , Bucky thought sadly. “You should get in touch with them” was all he said, then flipped the next card.

He blinked. Was this serious? He let the one-two-three of cups slide, but this was getting ridiculous. He went ahead and drew the next card as well, then hid his exasperation. Even the deck knew this was a basic problem.

Four of Cups. _She will n_ _eed to contemplate her relationship to_ _come to the answer_ _._

Five of Cups, inverted. _She_ _will_ _struggle to accept th_ _e answer she finds_ _._

Bucky looked down at the cards, taking in the one-to-five progression.

“What’s it say?”

“They say you need to assess your relationship with him to find your answer. You’re gonna have some difficulty, but your friends can help”

“Oh” she said, another contemplative look on her face. “But I haven’t spoken to them in like, forever…” she muttered.

Bucky gave her a sympathetic smile. “I’m sure they’ll be happy to hear from you” _And happy to tell you to dump his ass._

“The cards say that?”

There was a tug at his wrist, chastising him. “No, that was just my… intuition. You look like you keep good friends”

“Oh my god, thank you” she said with a giggle, smiling bashfully.

Another tug at his wrist. His last warning.

“One more card,” Bucky said, his smile a little tighter, “Last one, this’ll tell you the outcome of these actions”

He pulled the last card and flipped it, and the woman gasped in shock. “I’m going to _die_?!”

Bucky kept himself from rolling his eyes. _Every time…_

The last card bore a skeleton in red robes, a sickle held loosely in hand, and the words DEATH at the bottom.

“No, the Death arcana isn’t literal. This is one of the best card you could’ve gotten” he assured.

“What, so is, like, _Jason_ going to die?”

Bucky didn’t point out that seeing Jason’s death as the positive outcome spoke volumes of what choice she should make, but that wasn’t his place.

“Death is the end of a cycle and transformation. You’ll see a great change in your life and a fresh start. This is a card of opportunity”

“Huh…” was all she said, and Bucky took the time to collect the cards. He pretended to be occupied shuffling the deck to give her a moment.

“You’re really good at, like, that shuffling stuff” she noted.

“Thank you. Is there more mystery in your life you wish to shed light on?” Bucky asked, professional again and falling back to his script.

“No thanks, you like, kinda said some stuff I gotta think about” she said as she got up. She waved a goodbye and left, not quite as excited as she’d been at the start.

Bucky cut the deck and mindlessly flipped the halves between his fingers, leaning back in his chair. Not a bad reading, given the subject.

He kept absently shuffling and practicing tricks, waiting for his next customer while watching people walk by, a few glancing at his tent but never coming closer. He’d get another soon enough though, business was steady at about a customer every fifteen minutes during peak hours.

It wasn’t great money on its own, but that was the benefit of the communal income method the carnival used- at the end of the day everyone pooled their earning together and split it evenly. It helped workers like him who didn’t see much traffic, but whose collective presence would draw more people for the bigger events.

This was the perfect job for Bucky, in more ways than one. His situation meant he couldn’t work regular jobs for long, but the fortune telling tent did away with that barrier. It was the best he would get out of life, and he was incredibly grateful for it.

His attention pulled back to the present as, right on cue, someone entered his tent. He put on another smile and twirled the cut deck in his hands once more. He started his usual greeting, making his voice sultry to better sell the gimmick.

“Welcome to my sanctum of fortune and fate. What answers do you seek?”

The man’s eyes traveled around the room. “This psychic stuff is all fake, you know that right?”

Bucky kept his smile up, unfazed. Today was a big day for amateur mythbusters it seemed. He braced himself and started on his usual script.

“You can actually get a lot of value from a reading…”

* * *

“ _Gnnuh_ , what is it about the people in this town and thinking they need to personally debunk psychics?” Bucky groaned, flopping backwards onto the narrow couch.

“You get another self-righteous doubter?” Clint asked as he applied face paint in front of the mirror in their shared dressing space.

“I got _six_. Why? What satisfaction do they think they’re gonna get from it? Like, good job, you paid five dollars to ignore my fortunes and say I’m wrong”

“I mean, it’s money though”

“It’s _exhausting_ ”

Clint chuckled as he finished painting his face white. “Hey man, cheap shows get cheap crowds”

“Yeah, cheap I can handle. Give me the drunk and horny any day, but by god keep away the holier-than-thou”

“Do the drunk and horny even ask good questions?”

“Sometimes. Once a guy asked if his dick would get bigger” he muttered, then looked to Clint and furrowed his brow.

“Are you giving yourself purple raccoon eyes?”

“Yeah, T’Challa’s got a sore throat so he can’t shout. I’m filling in for the big cats show”

“As what, Skeletor?”

“ _No._ I’m going for hobo clown”

“Jesus, go to Natasha’s trailer and get it done properly, you look terrible”

“That’s the point though”

“Yeah, when done right. You’ve overshot right into scary clown territory”

“I _have not_ ” Clint scoffed, then assessed himself in the mirror. There was a beat, then he swore and pulled out a wet wipe to clean his work off his face.

“Go see Natasha, Skeletor” Bucky said again.

“ _Myah!_ ” Clint cheekily retorted.

Bucky sighed and let his head fall back to the couch cushion. Arguing with skeptics really took it out of him. He’d taken his break early, closing the tent and slinking back to the trailer he shared with Clint.

The two of them got along well, and Clint was incredibly patient whenever Bucky asked to do a reading on him ‘for practice’. At this point Bucky had seen nearly every trajectory Clint’s life could take and helped him avoid innumerable minor disasters- not that Clint was aware of it.

Clint didn’t believe any of Bucky’s taromancy, but he was polite and didn’t act like an asshole about it, as was the common courtesy among carnival workers. Similarly, nobody called bullshit when Scott claimed he spoke to his ants, or when Susan said her skin naturally turned invisible without any tricks.

For all Bucky knew, those actually could be true. He was in no place to judge.

“Hey, you want me to grab you anything when I’m done? I’m gonna swing by the corn dog cart for supper”

“You know the reason people eat that is because it only shows up once a year for them? You’re not supposed to eat that shit regularly”

“And yet I do” Clint preened like it was a point of pride.

“You’re disgusting. Go see Natasha and tell her your food plans so she can stop you” Bucky said as he shooed him off. He heard Clint’s laughter slowly disappear as he went to Natasha’s trailer.

Now that the dressing space was clear, Bucky debated removing his own makeup. He’d have to reapply it at the end of his break, but the freedom was probably worth it. He’d already shucked off all the jewelry and shawl.

“Ah, fuck it” he muttered, and got up to grab the makeup wipes.

With his face clean, he pulled his hair into a ponytail, threw on a hoodie, and tucked his cards into the hoodie’s pouch at the stomach. He hit the private employee mess first to grab a quick meal, and then he was melting in with the rest of the carnival goers as he walked the grounds.

The sun was starting to get low and it would be dark soon. This was the last hour before the really young children were taken home, and then the older kids would slowly trickle out until it was late enough for the _real_ adult entertainment to start.

He paused at the freak show and waved to a few of his fellow performers; Sharon the ‘mermaid’ in her tank with the shiny tail that took thirty minutes to squeeze into, Morita the ‘half-man’ who used a mirror box to appear like his body ended under his ribs, and Hope the ‘wasp’ who had a beard of _bees_ crawling on her face.

A lot of the ‘freaks’ were more gimmick than anything; a lot of costumes and illusions, with maybe some performance thrown in if the crowd was paying well.

He stopped again at the ‘big cat’ show to watch Clint, being careful to stand back from the gathered crowd. He was relieved to see actual clown makeup on him, courtesy of Natasha, and the small audience of kids were absolutely eating it up.

“Get ready for the mightiest cat of the savanna! The fiercest predator in the Serengeti! The one! The only! THE KING OF THE JUNGLE!” he shouted, and the ‘King of the Jungle’ leaped out from behind a fake bush onto the wooden platform at Clint’s side.

The crowd burst into shrieks and giggles, and several children yelled out delightfully “That’s not a lion! That’s a _dog!_ ”

Clint put on an exaggerated look of panic and covered the dog’s ears. “Well don’t _tell him_ that!” he cried, earning more laughs and shrieking giggles.

The dog was having a blast, smiling wide with his tail wagging at lightning speeds, unbothered by the fake lion mane hanging loosely around his head.

Clint took his hands away from the dog’s ears and pulled out a large hoop. “The majestic lion- who is _definitely_ a lion- is very smart, and he’s learned _so many_ tricks that he wants to share with you all! What do you say, wanna see the mighty lion’s tricks?”

“YEAH!!!” the kids yelled in unison.

Bucky smiled, watching as Clint tried and failed to get the ‘lion’ to jump through the hoop, resorting to showing the lion how it was done. The culmination of which was Clint being ‘fooled’ into doing all the tricks, including jumping through the hoop that the dog held in his mouth, doing several flips, roaring, and a variety of others.

Usually T’Challa didn’t milk this bit so much, but Clint was a better acrobat than ringmaster, and he played to his strengths.

Bucky left him to it, moving on past the other acts like the swords sallower and the stilt walkers. Every one of these acts had at least three different people who could do the same thing, allowing for shift changes that left the performances running all day. Bucky was the only tarot reader however, and he worked nearly all day on weekends. Fury wasn’t a monster though, and Bucky was given a lot of leniency with his breaks.

Walking around helped clear his head of the frustration that the know-it-all customers had been, and he let himself enjoy being around people. The itch to offer a reading sat at the back of his mind as it always did, but it was well and thoroughly scratched at this point. He was free to ignore it.

He was enjoying the sight of the knife throwers chucking daggers at volunteers when he felt something grip his leg tightly at the knee. He looked down and froze, seeing a small child hugging his leg and looking up at him with an equal amount of panic.

Bucky’s mind honed in on her hands and how close they were, how she could reach up for his pouch and get the cards inside. Fear paralyzed him, and his thoughts went blank. With nothing to distract him, the earlier itch he’d been ignoring came roaring in his mind like a mantra of _read her fortune read her fortune read her fortune_ -

“Mona!” a voice called worriedly. The child, Mona, leg go of his leg, and a moment later she was scooped up into someone’s arms.

“Mona! Don’t run off like that, you had everyone worried” a man spoke, hoisting her against his side. Bucky’s heart was rabbiting, still caught in terror at how close she’d been. Both his hands dove into the hoodie’s pouch and gripped the deck, assuring him only _he_ was touching it.

A child had _touched him_ , had gotten close, far too close- nearly a hairsbreadth from the cards. She was away and still the urge echoed to _read her fortune read her fortune-_

The man pulled a phone from his pocket a dialed someone, which brought Bucky’s attention to him. Bucky focused on the man, needing something else to take his attention away from his spiraling thoughts and the growing need, and suddenly his breath caught.

_Wow._

The itch disappeared as something inside Bucky stirred. It might’ve been his dick.

This guy was just… _wow._ Tall, blond and handsome, he was built like an athlete who could snap Bucky in half. He held the girl up with one arm while he made the call, showing off his muscled arms in the form-fitting shirt he wore.

“Sam? Hi, yeah, I found her. We’re near the knife throwers. I don’t… I’m not sure which direction that’s in”

Bucky should’ve left- should’ve turn and walked away right then- but something about this man had him rooted in place, and it wasn’t fear this time. “Uh, I work here, I can, help?” Bucky offered stiltedly before he could think better of it.

“Really? Yes, please. Thank you” the man said in relief, then into the phone “No, I was talking to a carnival worker, he says he can help”

Bucky nodded. Right, yes. Lost people were easy to handle. He’d given directions before. “You need directions to your friend or your friend to here?” he asked.

The man handed him the phone, surprising Bucky. “Would you mind? I don’t wanna get lost with her” he said, indicating the girl in his arm and shrugging sheepishly. Dear god, he was adorable too. He was probably staring at the guy like a creep.

“Yeah, sure” Bucky said, and he took the phone before he made a bigger fool of himself.

“Hi, this is James” he said into the phone, turning so handsome guy wasn’t directly in his line of sight, “Can you tell me where you are? I’ll walk you through the grounds”

“ _Hey man, thank you so much. I’m_ _at the fire breathers_ ”

“Is it a tall man or a tattooed woman?” Bucky asked. Johnny worked by the front while Pepper kept close to wherever Tony set up his machines, which could be anywhere.

“ _Uh, tall man_ ”

Bucky mentally mapped the attractions nearby and how to best describe the route. “Alright, there should be a corn dog stand to your left, start walking in that direction until you hit the snake whisperer…”

Bucky kept giving directions until handsome guy was suddenly waving, and he looked over to see a man and woman rushing over. The man was holding a phone that he hung up, ending the call on Bucky’s end. That must’ve been Sam then.

“Mona baby, oh, let me see you” the woman said urgently, taking the girl from the handsome guy’s arms.

“She’s fine, I think she just got turned around” the handsome guy said, letting her go easily.

“Hey man, thanks again for your help” Sam said, holding a hand out. Bucky returned the shake, and he saw Sam’s eyes briefly look at his hand, his painted nails doing their job of catching people’s eye.

“It’s no trouble, people get turned around all the time, it’s part of our job to help” Bucky smiled.

“Well thank you anyway” the woman said, hugging her child closely. “Michelle” she said, shifting her hold on Mona to offer her hand as well. Bucky shook it, giving his name again “James”

Handsome guy got in on the act and offered his hand as well. “Steve” he said, and Bucky shook his hand too. He felt an imagined shiver go up his arm at the touch. Wow, this guy was even more handsome up close. Was Bucky drooling? He hoped not.

“Hey, you do any acts?” Michelle asked suddenly, her eyes briefly caught on his nails. “We can check you out tomorrow, throw an extra tip your way”

“Oh, well, I would, but…” he looked over to Mona and hesitated. For reasons obvious from his earlier panic, he had a large sign saying _No Children_ at his tent. He didn’t want to snub these people, but he couldn’t exactly invite them all.

“My act’s adults-only. Can’t really have children there…”

“Oh… _oh!_ ” Michelle said, then snickered. “That’s fine, I’m sure these two would enjoy the show anyway” she laughed, earning a scoff from Sam and making Steve blush-?

 _Oh._ They thought he was part of the burlesque shows. That was certainly easier to let them assume than explain why he couldn’t have kids at a tarot reading. “Sure” was all Bucky said, smiling politely.

“Well thank you again, but we should be going, it’s getting close to this little lemur’s supper time, _and they don’t sell proper meals here, do they?_ ” Michelle said the last bit in a goofy voice, giving Mona little bunny kisses with her nose and getting the quiet girl to laugh.

“Yeah, I won’t hold you up. I need to get ready anyway, my break’s ending soon” Bucky said, already stepping away.

“It was nice to meet you!” Michelle called as he walked away, the two men echoing the sentiment.

Their words melted into the clamor of the carnival, and Bucky had a moment of regret for not telling them about his tent despite it being better that he hadn’t.

He swung by the big cat show again on his way back, seeing Clint still going at it but close to wrapping up. He had the whole cast out now, all six dogs in their different costumes posing with the children, their parents taking pictures. Clint had his hat out for collections, turning on the charm to get as much as he could in tips, and doing a good job of it too. Bucky smiled and moved on.

He had both hands in his hoodie pouch the entire way back, careful to keep the deck secure as he astutely kept away from children. He wasn’t always so paranoid with the cards, but he’d been shaken earlier and couldn’t bear the thought of risking it. She’d been _so close_ , and he hadn’t been paying attention until then.

What had he been thinking, keeping the cards in the loose pouch of a hoodie? He always, _always_ , kept them in a pocket, usually in his pants or the inside of his coat- but slips happened, and it was slips like these that terrified him.

It was a relief when he got back to his trailer, and he put his back to the door, letting himself slide down to the floor and collect himself.

He pulled the cards out of hoodie and started shuffling them, the action soothing and familiar, until his mind became centered again and he could actually think.

He glanced over to the dressing space and sighed, knowing he’d have to apply all his makeup again. The walk had successfully cleared his head of irritating customers- but at the cost of his anxiety with children.

Whatever, his tent had the sign. He’d be fine as long as he stayed inside, and the carnival would be transitioning to adult-only in a few hours. Then the only children on the grounds would be teenagers, and they’d be too busy trying to sneak into the burlesque to come by his tent.

Bucky got up from the floor and approached the mirror. He set the deck on the vanity where he could keep an eye on it and picked up his foundation brush.

Time to get back to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Bingo Mods:
> 
> Title: Reading Your Love  
> Creator(s): SucculentHyena  
> Card number: 017  
> Link:https://archiveofourown.org/works/25436860/chapters/61692094  
> Square filled: D1, Fortune Teller AU  
> Rating: Mature  
> Archive warnings: Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Abuse  
> Major tags: Tarot, Carnival, Magical Artifact, Curses  
> Summary: Bucky’s job as a carnival fortune teller is the best he’ll get for his lot in life, and he’ll forever be grateful. It’s given him food, shelter, and a motley group of friends; but most importantly, it’s satisfied the tarot deck.  
> When he reads the fortune of one Steve Rogers, however, the tentative life he’s managed is shaken.  
> Word count: N/A


	2. The Prisoner

“Sooooooo…” Michelle needled, poking Steve’s side.

“Sooo…?” he answered, unsure what she was going for.

“So are you going to see his show? Check out some hot man-action?”

“I swear I can’t take my friends anywhere with you” Sam griped, walking behind them with his niece in his arms.

Steve felt his face heat and he rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s… not really my thing”

“Come on, I saw you undressing the guy with your eyes, why not see it in real life too?”

“Mish! For fu- uh, for fudge sake, lay off the guy” Sam hissed.

“What? You say he’s been dry lately, and Lord knows there ain’t no male strip clubs in this town to wet ourselves in”

“Jesus, _jesus_ , I can’t tell you anything” Sam said, turning forlornly to Steve. “I’m _so_ sorry”

Steve waved him off awkwardly. “It’s fine, not like it isn’t true” he mumbled, glancing at the passing attractions while they walked. Their town didn’t exactly cater to lgbtq community- sometimes it felt like it didn’t even _have_ a community with how poor Steve’s dating pool was.

Not that he put in much effort. The bars were all the same, and he didn’t drink anyway; none of the movies at the theater suited his taste; and beside the little art gallery in town, there were no places of interest for him. All that paired with working from home meant he just didn’t go out- but when he _did_ , it was with Sam and Riley for a very tame boys night at their house.

He’d tried online, but again there was the issue of _location_. According to the three dating apps he was on, there was a sum total of seven men in his region to choose from.

“So you’re gonna check out the show, right?” Michelle asked, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

“I… maybe. But not today”

“Well _duh_ , we carpooled. Me and Mona ain’t gonna be sitting around waiting for you two to finish ogling the pretty men”

“Mish, seriously? In front of your child?” Sam asked, looking pained.

“Mona gets it, don’t you lemur?”

Mona nodded, “Pitty men”

“Atta girl”

“I fear for you sometimes” Sam said, shaking his head.

Michelle only laughed. Steve chuckled with her, but his mind wandered as he caught sight of the huge burlesque tent.

He hadn’t been kidding earlier- live-shows intimidated him. He’d never even been to see a _musical_ , never mind a burlesque show. How far would they disrobe? What was the audience etiquette? He could leave if it got uncomfortable, couldn’t he?

“Oooh, you’re thinking about it” Michelle grinned.

“I’m considerin’” Steve muttered, quickly looking away from the tent. He felt his cheeks heat again.

“Do it! Do it!” she goaded, and kept goading all the way to the car. She even roped little Mona into it, with Sam’s weak attempts to stop them peppered between.

“Steve, come on. At least go at night when all the freaky stuff comes out. You don’t even have to see the show”

Steve sat on the fence of indecision. “I can’t just go by myself” he tried, and that was true enough.

“And you won’t! Sam’ll take you”

Sam leaned up from where he’d strapped Mona into her car seat. “I’ll do what now?”

“You’re gonna take Steve to the burlesque show tomorrow. Ooh, you can take Riley too! Make is a couple’s outing”

“There an option two in that sentence?” Sam asked as he screwed his face.

“You and Riley can babysit Mona, and _I’ll_ take Steve” she said with a devilish grin.

Steve shot Sam a panicked look. Michelle was great, but Sam’s sister could be… a lot. Maybe too much for a burlesque show.

Sam sucked on his teeth in consideration, eyes cutting between Steve and his sister. He hummed unhappily. “You’re a menace” he said, pointing a finger at Michelle before getting into the car.

“That’s a yes!” Michelle beamed.

Steve chuckled at their ribbing, trying not to let his nerves show too much. He still had time to back out if he wanted- hell, he and Sam could easily stay in at his place and watch a movie, Michelle none the wiser.

Then he thought of that shy smile and gentle voice, and the gorgeous man they belonged to. _James_. Something about him had sparked an interest Steve hadn’t felt in a while. The large hoodie he’d been wearing hid the shape of his body, but Steve had caught the impression that he was lithe and slender underneath, and the thought of seeing that confirmed was sorely tempting.

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to check out?

* * *

Bucky groaned and stretched his arms above his head, trying to work out the kinks in his shoulders. Today had been a _day_ , and he was so close to finishing. It was one in the morning and the last acts were just coming to a close. They’d be open for another hour to squeeze as much money from the crowds as people slowly trickled out.

Bucky quickly sipped his energy drink, trying to get his second wind. The last hour was his busiest, when the dregs of the drunken crowd would be at their height. A fortune telling booth was exactly the final hurrah some of them were looking for, usually for a good laugh.

He’d gotten a few drunks already, and they’d been good customers overall.

One asked if his dog would return home, to which the cards had essentially said _yes_ , prompting the guy to tip Bucky an extra twenty dollars.

Another was a pair of women asking the usual about finding their future husbands, to which the cards had said they wouldn’t ever marry- and they’d cackled like a pair of crones, delighted by that result.

One woman was so drunk that Bucky literally couldn’t understand her words. The cards _did_ , however, and Bucky blindly read the results without knowing the context. It was something about practicing moderation during separation, and she’d tipped him all the change in her pocket.

His tent flap swayed as another customer came in, and he quickly tucked the drink away, starting his usual script.

“Welcome to my sanctum of fortune and fate. What answers do you seek?” Bucky started, and immediately got a bad feeling when he saw the man that entered.

Years spent telling fortunes had given him a feel for the different types of customers. There were the people humouring the cards for fun, the skeptics looking to debunk, the hardcore astrology/crystal/essential-oils crowd, the surprisingly large number of investors looking for any leg up in the market-

-and then there was the desperate.

Bucky hated the desperate. Whether their reasons were good or bad, the sheer intensity of their situation often made the cards a nightmare. The deck loved suffering, and it didn’t care about the toll it took on Bucky. If he could, he would’ve told this man to get out and never return.

But he couldn’t say no.

“You’re Barnes, right? The one Alexander Pierce saw?”

Bucky’s lips curled back in a silent snarl at the name. _Pierce_. He hadn’t heard that name in years, and it was still too soon to hear it again.

Pierce was a member of the investor crowd, and he’d built a fortune off Bucky’s tarot readings. Then he blabbed about it at a party while high on coke, and the influx of Wall Street vultures had been awful. The money they poured into his readings weren’t worth the suffering it caused.

Bucky had needed to flee four states over just to get away from their kind, and still, some would always find him no matter how often the carnival moved.

“Yeah, that’s me” Bucky said disdainfully.

“I need to find my wife” the man grunted and threw a rolled stack of hundreds onto the table. His eyes were red-rimmed, his dress shirt was disheveled, and his tie hung loose around his neck. He reeked of alcohol in a way that made Bucky think he’d been drinking for a few days now.

Bucky didn’t bother shuffling, and he didn’t bother with a smile. He pocketed the money and laid the deck down at the center of the table, the red star facing up like an open wound.

“Ask your question and touch the deck. Don’t draw the card” he instructed tersely.

“Where’s my wife” he said gruffly, and rapped his knuckles on the deck.

There was no loose tug on Bucky’s wrists- instead there was a _yank_ , violent and demanding, and he had to bite his cheek to stop himself crying out.

He started pulling cards, the words tumbling from his mouth without control.

The first depicted a man in a throne and holding a sword. At his feet a bleeding woman knelt and wept.

King of Sword, inverted. “She fled your cruelty and abuse-”

The second card was a woman happily spinning yarn. The yarn flowed outward and coiled around a man, holding him down like they were chains.

Wheel of Fortune, inverted. “-and you can’t stand the loss of control”

The man’s hands tightened into fists. Bucky kept going, unable to stop or soften the words that were pulled from his mouth like a string of barbed wire.

He drew the third card. It showed an eye inside a bottle, three swords piercing it.

Three of Swords, inverted. “Your intoxications blind you to the answer you already know”

The next card showed a woman holding a pentacle like a cherished item, a look of peace on her face.

Queen of Pentacles, inverted. “You have your suspicions and your jealous hatred, you know who she’s run to. The one who cares for her truly”

“That _fucking b_ _itch_ , I knew she was cheating with Mark” the man hissed.

The next card showed a woman and man back-to-back, each holding two swords.

Four of Swords, inverted. “She fears you’ll find her, and she’s taken precautions. She has help. You will have to fight both her and another if you go this route”

He drew the last card and set it down. On it was a smiling man in the likeness of the brute in front of him, grotesque and proud. Two pentacles circled his wrists like handcuffs. Over one shoulder was a woman hanging by a noose; over the other shoulder was a man, also hanged.

Two of Pentacles, inverted. “You will think yourself satisfied with your actions, but it will be hollow. The joy you feel is fleeting and will hold no value”

The pull of the cards cut off sharply. Bucky collapsed back into his seat with a gasp. He folded over himself and shook, his hair falling over his face to shield him from the awful sight the card made. He cradled his hands to his stomach.

He didn’t look up as the man stood and growled more obscenities. The sound of him leaving didn’t bring Bucky any kind of solace. He choked back a sob and stood on shaky legs, going for the front of the tent to hastily close it.

 _No more_ , he thought with anguish. No more readings today.

He stumbled to his trailer in the dark, leaving the tent and the cards behind. He got in and was thankful Clint hadn’t returned yet.

Bucky tried to make it to his bed only to collapse on the floor. He choked on another sob and curled up, hugging his wrists close to his chest. They hurt, _god_ , they hurt. He could see angry red marks on each like rope burns, circling his wrists like they’d been tied. He let his next sob come out as the tears started to flow.

He closed his eyes tightly and curled up, crying out his pain until his sobs turned to hiccups, and waited until those faded too. He swallowed thickly and allowed himself to uncurl. He feebly pushed up into a sitting position and stayed like that, not trusting his legs yet.

A small weight poked him in the thigh, and he reached into his pocket to pull out the tarot deck.

He held it loosely between his fingers. “Fuck you” he said without any passion.

“Does he kill them? Can you at least tell me that?” he asked, then sent the cards flying into the air. They fluttered down, spreading out around him. Every card landed face-down, and their red stars made a hellish constellation on the floor.

A single card landed face-up.

It showed a man in chains with a likeness to Bucky, and a thousand red stars looming above him.

The Prisoner.

_The Prisoner does not ask questions._

“Figures” he rasped, then flicked the card under the couch where it would stop existing.


	3. The Hermit

“You sure you’re good?” Clint asked from his bed, watching Bucky use drops to ease the red from his eyes.

“Peachy” he muttered, head tilted back and blinking away the moisture.

Clint didn’t sound convinced. “Seriously, you don’t look good”

“That’s what this is for” he said dryly, grabbing the concealer and waving it.

He glared at his reflection and noted everything that needed to be fixed. He’d need foundation for the sickly paleness. The dark bags under his eyes would take more concealer than usual to hide. Most troubling of all, his lips had chapped enough to crack- he’d need lipstick to cover that up, which was his least favourite form of cosmetic to wear.

He got started with his foundation.

“I can cover your tent if you want. You’ve read my fortune like a hundred times, I think I can do a pretty good impression of it”

“I’m _fine_ , and you’ve got four archery sets today on top of covering for T’Challa again. You’re stretching yourself already”

“Oh, right” Clint said. He frowned and went quiet.

Bucky sighed and put the brush down, turning to fully face Clint. “Seriously, I’m okay. I had a rough night is all, I’ll be fine with some coffee”

“Did someone grab you?”

Bucky’s hand twitched hard enough to nearly knock the brush off the vanity. He hastily pulled his sleeve back over his wrist, unaware it had slipped. The marks had faded to a heavy bruise overnight, and he’d been hoping Clint would go back to sleep so he could put concealer on them unnoticed.

“You had a bad customer” Clint said. It wasn’t a question.

“I’m fine” Bucky grit out. He took up the brush again to finish blending. He didn’t look at Clint.

“You gotta report these people. If not for you then for the others, they could hurt someone else”

 _Trust me, I’m the only one getting hurt_ , Bucky thought bitterly.

But that wasn’t true though, was it? There was the unnamed man and woman from the cards yesterday. He’d stayed up all night looking through media feeds for new murders, but that guy could’ve come from any state, and none of the news outlets were giving out identities- not that Bucky had caught the guy’s name. All Bucky had done was depress himself further and miss out on any sleep.

Right now he didn’t want to think about it. He had a job to get to.

“It was just another drunk, he was on his way out anyway” Bucky said dismissively. He moved on to the concealer and went ahead with covering his wrist, not bothering to hide it now.

More silence, and then Clint spoke again. “I’ll ask Dum Dum to run his act by your tent today”

“I don’t need protection” Bucky tisked. Dum Dum’s strongman act was a guarantee to keep the unruly crowds away, and he was often strategically placed near the more at-risk performers- which Bucky _wasn’t_.

“Then can I at least check up on you between shows?”

“God, _alright_. Just don’t show up in that hobo clown getup, you’ll clash with my mystique”

“But tights are okay?”

“The purples match, it’s fine”

“Cool” Clint nodded, folding his arms behind his head.

Bucky finished with the concealer and worked on adding the last touched with eyeliner. Then it was a quick brush to fix his hair, throwing on the rest of his outfit, and he’d be off to his tent.

“Hey, you maybe want a taser in the future? Darcy’s got one hidden at her booth, she’s used it twice already. Says it really helps”

“ _Clint”_ Bucky warned.

“Alright, alright, I’d shutting up” he muttered. He closed his eyes to doze, but he still had his hearing aids in which meant he was only pretending. _Whatever_ , as long as he stayed quiet it was fine. Everything was _fine_.

Bucky slipped the golden bands onto his arms, careful of the concealer on his wrists, and did his best to tuck his bitterness away.

He wanted nothing more than to stay in bed and skip today, but that would only cause more suffering for himself. The intensity of last night’s reading didn’t satisfy the cards any stronger than the other readings he did, and he needed to take this opportunity to get as much done as he could. Weekend readings helped tide him over for the rest of the week.

He consciously didn’t slam the door on his way out, stepping through the alleys of trailers and cutting through the mess area. Today they were serving eggs and bacon, and he’d gotten his freshly made earlier.

He hadn’t been particularly hungry, but neither had he been nauseous, which was on the better end of his morning-afters.

He should’ve known it was coming. At least once every month or two he’d get an intense, awful reading, and he’d been due for one soon. The frequency wasn’t too bad- it was a marked improvement of what it used to be, actually.

Another blessing of the carnival was the infrequency of the depraved. Carnival goers usually weren’t entangled in something terrible or tragic, unlike the people Bucky used to read on the streets, and he mostly enjoyed his days filled with mundane fortunes.

On the other hand, it was unfortunate that with a steady job came an easy way to find him. All it had taken was one _extremely_ desperate man who’d stalked through hundreds of fortune tellers across the states until finding Bucky, and then later informing the rest of his ilk where he could be found.

Now if any of those investor types wanted Bucky’s reading, all they had to do was hunt down the _Hill-Fury_ _Carnivàle_.

It was an unfortunate situation, but ultimately manageable, and better still than the streets. The carnival moved often enough that it was inconvenient for most investors to fly out to him, and the ones that did would find themselves eventually recognized and banned from their multiple visits.

Another benefit to his employment: protection from constant harassment.

In return he netted the carnival a few hundred each weekend- except this weekend, seeing as the roll of bills from last night shook out at two-thousand dollars. Bucky had tossed the roll with disgust into the collection bin at Hill’s trailer, careful not to be caught. He didn’t want the blood money associated with him.

He exited the trailer park and entered the grounds, waving and wishing good morning to the other early acts. The very start of the mornings were slow and intimate, until the trickle of guests picked up and they got into the swing of things.

For now Bucky could walk in his full costume unimpeded, casually passing vaudeville clowns and people carrying medieval weaponry like it was another day in the office.

He made it to his tent in short time. He paused at the entrance and frowned, a sense of unease creeping up on him, but he pushed past it and into the tent. He couldn’t let these things hold him back.

Inside it wasn’t so bad. He’d forgotten to shut off the lights last night, and he didn’t realize he’d knocked over his chair in his haste to leave, but otherwise everything was in more or less the usual configuration.

The tablecloth was a little skewed so he fixed it, tossed yesterday’s energy drink into the nearest trash bin outside, and made sure all his signage was still standing. Then the tent flaps were opened and clipped up, and he was ready to start the day.

He sat down behind his table and took out the deck, absently shuffling it. The little red stars flew by from left to right then back again, over and over. The sight was off-putting in the way the cards always would be, but the motion soothed him nonetheless.

Outside he could see more people walking the grounds, a few already glancing at his tent with consideration. He leaned back in his chair and put on a small smile, a placeholder for when he had to turn his expression up when he was approached, and waited for his first customer to make their appearance.

* * *

Steve pulled up to Sam’s house a little after supper time and waited in his driveway for a minute to collect himself. He was having second thought already, and he hadn’t even gotten to the carnival.

All day he’d been working up the nerve to call and cancel, only to talk himself out of it. Michelle was right, he should go out tonight, but it was difficult. His life was a comfortable monotony, and he didn’t like how a single burlesque show was enough to spook him. He _needed_ to do this for himself.

He took a breath and psyched himself up, then got out. The little home Sam and Riley kept was delightfully suburban, with their own touch of uniqueness. He walked up the stone path that squeezed between the huge swatches of local flowers and grasses. They had a little sign on a stick proclaiming their lawn to be _Bee Friendly_ , which was all the argument they ever needed when the homeowner’s association complained about the ‘unkempt’ wild garden.

He got to the door and rang the bell, waiting nervously. There was the muffled sound of shuffling before the door opened to reveal Riley, who had a large smear of sauce on his cheek.

“Steve! Hey, come in” he greeted, motioning for Steve to enter. He closed the door while Steve squeezed into the little foyer, all the while turning a curious eye to the sauce stain.

“Cooking mishap?” he asked.

Riley went to touch the sauce on his face before thinking better of it and grinned. “Sam thought _spaghetti_ would be a good idea tonight” he said with an eyeroll. “Michelle won’t even go into the kitchen, her kid’s a damn sniper with those noodles”

“ _Is that Steve?”_ Sam’s voice called from the kitchen.

Riley moved past Steve back into the house. “Stay here unless you want a saucing too. I’ll go relieve him” he said with a laugh, and disappeared around the corner. A moment later Sam came out, his shirt looking like a casualty of an unfortunate pasta explosion.

Steve whistled, impressed. “Is she even eating any of it?” he asked, eyes trailing over the carnage.

Sam had a paper towel in his hand and was busy wiping away more sauce from his face. “We’re gettin’ there. It’s about a two-to-one eat:throw ratio”

From the kitchen they heard Riley exclaim in shock, followed by delighted giggles from Mona. Sam looked back sympathetically. “Girl’s got a hell of an aim”

“I can see that” Steve laughed. “Are you changing first or do you wanna bring the whole meal out with you?” Steve joked, but then his smile fell when Sam gave him a guilty look.

“Sam?”

“Don’t be mad”

“Who’s ready to see some _butts!_ ” Michelle yelled from deep within the house.

He’d been betrayed.

“ _Sam_ ” he hissed.

“Tonight’s the bakeoff finale! We can’t miss that”

“We could’ve snuck back to my place to watch!” Steve whisper-yelled, mindful of the ominously approaching sound of Michelle chanting _bur-lesque!-bur-lesque!-bur-lesque!_ that grew closer.

“You try lying to my sister, she’ll shove her foot so far up my a-ah! There you are!” Sam said, suddenly shifting to excited as Michelle came down the stairs. She was dressed for a night of wreaking havoc on Steve’s sanity.

“Steve, guess what!”

“You’re taking me to the burlesque show” he said without enthusiasm.

“I’m taking you to the burlesque show! It’s gonna- stop looking like that- it’s gonna be fun!” she cheered, grabbing Steve’s shoulders and turning him so she could push him towards the door. “Now c’mon, I wanna get the good seats before it gets packed”

Steve shot Sam another betrayed look over his shoulder, seeing his friend silently mouth _sorry_ as he was forced out of the house.

* * *

Michelle kept quietly chanting _bur-lesque!-bur-lesque!-bur-lesque!_ under her breath as they neared the tent, the small woman practically vibrating with excitement.

“Ah! Steve, look!” she quietly squealed, watching as a woman in a mermaid costume was wheel past by three workers, sitting in a bathtub-sized tank of water. The woman smiled and waved to the people waiting in line, flicking her tail once as she disappeared around the corner.

“Huh, I guess some people do both” Steve murmured to himself, recognizing her from the freak show yesterday. She’d been sitting in the same tank and was busy waving to children, letting them pet her tail and answering their questions about life under the sea. For a few dollars, kids could get their picture taken with her, as with any of the other ‘freaks’.

He supposed it wasn’t as lucrative as the burlesque performances though.

“This is gonna be so great, Steve, you don’t even know. The daytime shows ain’t nothin’, they’re so cheap ‘cause it’s like seven acts, but the night show, _hoo!_ ” she exclaimed. “We’re gettin’ the works!”

Steve shifted, feeling unsure about the whole thing. He didn’t even know what to expect other than a striptease and some singing. How dirty did these things get?

“Could we, maybe, not sit right at the front?” Steve asked, thinking of the mortification of leaving while at the front for all to see.

Michelle leveled him with a look. “Steve, what do I look like?” she asked, and Steve didn’t know to answer that politely.

She opened her purse and reached in. “I got a friend like you back home, she’s got agoraphobia and everything. You think I don’t know how to treat my white bread friends?” she said, surprising Steve and pulling out a pair of binoculars.

“What?”

“We’re sittin’ right at the back, buddy. Aisle seats by the fire exit. And I ain’t missing a thing with these babies” she said, tapping her binoculars.

Steve let out a small laugh, feeling relief even as his cheek heated. “Hey, I’m not _that_ white bread” he argued, to which Michelle gave him a pointed look.

“Well it doesn’t have to be right next to fire exit” he muttered, crossing his arms.

“ _Mm-hm_ , sure thing” she said, patting his arm consolingly. “We’ll sit a few chairs over, how’s that sound?”

“… that sounds good” he admitted quietly.

* * *

The burlesque… wasn’t as bad as he’d thought. Not at the beginning at least. The opening acts didn’t even involve any stripping, mostly singing and skits that leaned on the side of raunchy. The mermaid they’d seen on the way in even made an appearance.

She was part of a skit where a group of sailors debated at length the best way to have sex with a mermaid, making a slew of dirty jokes in the process, only for the mermaid to unzip her tail and step out of the tank as a human, making the punch line that their whole debate had been pointless.

There was a gradual slide into the explicit as the acts went on though, and more and more Steve was looking away, feeling embarrassed at his own mortification. A lot of these were actually amazing, if only Steve could watch for longer than half a second.

There was currently a woman mixing a martini using only her breasts, which was an impressive feat in all honesty, and he wanted to join Michelle in cheering her on but just couldn’t get himself to. The act before had been a man covered in balloons, slowly popping them to reveal his naked form underneath, which Steve had looked away from when he popped the very last one over his crotch.

There was something vulnerable about watching it, the way the performers acknowledged the crowd like Steve was part of the act. Every time he looked at the stage, he felt like _he_ was up there, and that in turn made him feel watched like he’d never been before.

He felt a tap at his shoulder and looked over to Michelle, who’d lowered her binoculars and was giving him a sympathetic look.

“Wanna go?” she asked, no judgment in her voice.

Steve shook his head, then looked up at the stage and reconsidered. “I think I’ll step out” he said instead.

“We’ll go” she nodded, and Steve hastily stopped her from standing.

“No no, it’s fine, I’m just gonna walk around. Text me when you’re out” he said. He didn’t want to ruin her night.

She frowned, but nodded. “Text me if you need to leave, I’ll come out”

Steve nodded, knowing he’d wait for her to finish, and made his way out as quickly as he could to avoid bothering the other members in the audience. On his way he was joined by another guy who’d left his seat.

The guy gave a knowing sneer, muttering to Steve as they got to the exit. “Didn’t sign up for a fag show either, eh?” he asked, and Steve blinked.

“I suck dick on weekends” he deadpanned, standing up straighter. He kept his face impassive as the guy spluttered and huffed, eyeing Steve angrily before noting the size difference between them. Steve flexed his arms for good measure, emphasizing how bad of an idea it was to try anything. The guy grit his jaw and stomped off.

Steve watched him go, feeling satisfied. He might not be witty with his words, but he was privileged enough to be bigger and stronger than most homophobes, and he used it to his full advantage- though it had been a while since he’d had to.

There was an amused huff behind him, and he turned to see both the workers who were guarding the door grinning. One of them shot Steve a thumps up. Steve shyly returned a smile, cheeks and neck burning again. He moved past and left the huge tent.

The cool night air felt good on his flaming skin, and he rubbed at his face until the blush disappeared. Looking around he could see the carnival was still going on outside, though much more subdued. Many of the booths were closed, particularly the ones catered to children like the face painting tent or the balloon stalls. The animals had also been put away for the night, the pony rides and animal attractions sitting empty.

There was a knife juggler impressing some teenagers, and a stilt walker making the rounds. A few food stalls stayed open, serving alcohol along with greasy snacks.

Steve took a breath to clear his head. He put his hands in his pockets and moved along, taking in the rest of the attractions. It was more peaceful at this hour, the crowds far thinner with most people inside the burlesque tent- less hectic than yesterday when the place was packed. He could actually take his time walking, not worried about blocking other people or getting stuck behind a slower group.

He looked up and caught sight of a few stars, the moon a little bigger than half. The air had the faint smell of popcorn and cooked meats. It was a nice night.

He wished he could’ve stayed for the whole show, but… coming out at all had to be worth something at least, right?

He slowed his walk when he caught sight of the knife-throwing board from yesterday where he’d found Mona after a frantic search, and he was reminded of the worker who’d sparked this whole thing.

 _James_ , with the kind voice and soft eyes and red nails that caught him off-guard in a pleasant way. Was his act coming up soon? Was it as bold as the rest of them?

Steve sighed, sad he’d missed it. Maybe it would’ve been different knowing what James looked like outside of the makeup and costume.

It was the sound of laughter, high-pitched and grating that drew Steve’s attention. A woman was exiting a tent, red-faced and laughing. She was hooting and hollering, wiping a stray tear from her face as she sauntered away with a jump in her step.

He turned back to the tent and smiled when he read the sign, _Fortune Teller Extraodinaire_ , and underneath in smaller text, _Find the Answer_ _s_ _You Seek_. Then, in even smaller text, _Readings: $5 each_. It sounded like that woman had gotten her money’s worth.

There was a low light coming from within, soft and welcoming. He could just make out a table and a figure sitting at it, shuffling some cards.

A second sign caught Steve’s attention then, which only confused him.

_No Children_

Huh. Was there such a thing as a dirty fortune teller? Steve was curious now.

The tent was small enough to only fit two or three more people, and he could see the teller was the only one there. They weren’t busy right now; he figured he could stick his head in and ask them what it was about real quick.

If it _was_ dirty, then this could be a way to make it up to Michelle by sharing the discovery. She’d definitely get a kick out of it.

Steve walked up and brushed the flap aside, ducking into the low light.

“Welcome to my sanctum of fortune and fate. What answers do you seek?” a voice purred.

“Um, hi, I was just wondering…” Steve started to ask but trailed off, eyes widening as he got a proper look at the teller.

Glossy brown hair flowed around his face, highlighting the sharp detail of his makeup. Jewelry hung from his neck and arms- in his hair too- and he was swathed in deep reds. All of it cut a striking figure, the colours complimenting each other to bring every detail into sharper focus.

He looked so different that Steve almost thought his mind was playing tricks, but it was the same soft eyes underneath the sharp eyeliner.

It was James.


	4. Eight of Swords

Bucky shuffled his cards, smiling as the woman practically skipped out out his tent. She was going home happy in the knowledge that her ex _was_ worse off without her.

It had gotten quiet with the show still going on, and he had a while yet before the crowds were let out and he’d see his last business boom for the night. It was a good opportunity to collect himself, and he snuck another mouthful of the granola bar he was slowly getting through.

The day had gone well, all his readings mundane and all his customers decent. No amateur mythbusters either, which had been a bonus.

He figured he’d finish tonight’s shift and go to bed early, leave a little note on the trailer door so Clint knew not to be loud when he got back. He’d sleep in tomorrow, maybe find a local bakery and treat himself to something sweet. Something with chocolate, or caramel, or chocolate _and_ -

He snapped out of his thoughts and quickly got to putting a coy smile on his face for the next customer. He was a tall one, enough that he had to duck under the tent flap to enter.

“Welcome to my sanctum of fortune and fate. What answers do you seek?” he said, tucking the cards against his palm in anticipation of his next shuffle.

“Um, hi, I was just wondering…”

Bucky’s smile turned a little more genuine when he recognized the guy from yesterday- his name starting with an ‘S’ was about all Bucky could remember of it. He was still large and gorgeous, and now he was in Bucky’s tent with a dumb look on his face, mouth hanging open a little and standing at the entrance.

“Hey- hi” Bucky greeted, stumbling only a little. Thankfully, he had his professional persona shielding him from looking like an idiot this time.

The guy blinked, mouth closing. He stepped into the tent fully and took a seat across from Bucky.

“Hi, I- um, I’m Steve, I don’t know if you remember, but we met yesterday? You helped me find my friends”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah, you had that kid with you”

“Yeah” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes traveled around the tent to take it all in, then he let out a small chuckle.

“You know, when you said your act wasn’t for children, I sorta thought…” and he pointed his thumb behind him.

“The burlesque” Bucky finished for him, grinning.

“Yeah” he said, his cheeks going a little pink, and _jesus_ , he was adorable.

“That’s fair enough, I guess I didn’t explain what I did”

Which seemed rude in hindsight, especially with Steve seeing him again.

“It’s fine, you were busy I’m sure- and, uh, funny thing, that’s why I came in here”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I saw your sign out there and wondered about it. Why _aren’t_ kids allowed here? If, uh, if that’s alright to ask” Steve added.

This was a regular question, usually from curious customers like Steve, but sometimes from insistent parents who wanted their kid to get a reading despite the sign, which… wasn’t a good time. This was fine though, he had a prepared answer for it.

He waved the deck at Steve. “The cards aren’t all kid-friendly, some of them can be scary, and some are inappropriate in other ways” he explained, leaving it open-ended for people to interpret. Most assumed nudity or sexual images, which _did_ sometimes happen. None of it was a lie exactly, though neither was it the real reason for the sign.

Steve nodded, “Huh, alright” he said, accepting Bucky’s answer. His eyes cut to the deck, and Bucky caught the slight downturn of his lips. Some people picked up on the cards’ nature more than others. He got a few of them every now and again, and for the most part they were harmless.

His most recent had been last month when a woman stepped into his tent only to back out immediately with a hiss. She’d gripped the cross on her necklace, a look of confusion as she tried to pinpoint what was causing her fear before she gave up and ran.

He waited a half second before he saw Steve get over it, dismissing the feeling the cards incited and staying seated.

“So these fortune readings, they’re not…” Steve waved his hand, looking for a way to say the next part, and Bucky braced himself for what was going to be a polite way of telling him that tarot readings were fake-

“-sexual, in any way, are they?”

-or not. Bucky’s eyebrows hiked up at the question.

Steve’s cheeks went pink again. “I mean, it’s not _all_ inappropriate for kids, like- uh, a burlesque tarot-”

Bucky snorted, covering a hand over his mouth to stop a burst of laughter. _Burlesque tarot._ Now _there_ was an act.

“-okay I guess it’s kind of a dumb question” Steve chuckled, looking away in embarrassment.

“No, no, that’s-” Bucky let out a small laugh, getting himself under control, “-it’s fine, just, god, that’s a mental image right there”

Bucky thought of himself stripping as he read the cards and snorted again, the absurdity of the thought sending him. He was definitely telling the others about this later, they’d get a kick out of it.

Steve chuckled with him, chagrined. “Well, ah, it’s not necessarily a _bad_ image- uh, I, I mean” Steve’s cheeks grew pinker, suddenly flustered as he realized what he’d just said.

Bucky’s grin widened and leaned forward with his chin on his one hand, absently tapping the deck on the table with the other. “Oh, please go on” he laughed, feeling more confident seeing this beautiful man so rattled by him.

“I- not that… okay,” Steve halted, “I think I got my foot far enough into my mouth, maybe I should just, ah” Steve pointed behind him, making to leave with an embarrassed look.

“You don’t want your fortune read?” Bucky asked, raising the deck with a question. Normally he didn’t stop people from leaving, but Steve had enlivened his night a little, and he wouldn’t mind a few more minutes of his company.

“Oh, um, sure? Sorry, I guess I’ve sorta been wasting your time” Steve said, slowly sitting back down.

“Not at all. S’been a slow night, we got-” Bucky leaned back to look at the little watch he had hanging under the lip of the table, “-half an hour before the burlesque ends, won’t get much people until then”

Steve made an _ah_ sound, and he fumbled in his pocket before pulling out a five dollar bill.

Bucky pocketed it quickly and got to shuffling. He started with an accordion to warm up, then used the trick of flicking a card across his shoulders and catching it with the deck.

Steve let out a breath. “Oh, _wow_ ” he said.

Bucky grinned. He drew out the act, letting Steve enjoy the show fully.

He split the deck into fours, flipping them over and under each other across his knuckles. He gripped two in each hand held them in a staircase formation, letting the cards slide down in a cascade only to all land in a single deck at his palm.

“I didn’t realize there’d be a full _act_ for my fortune” Steve said, watching the performance with a delighted smile.

“Well it’s no _burlesque_ , but I do pretty good for myself” Bucky joked, enjoying the chuckle that earned him.

He did a few more flourishes, turning the cards hypnotically between his fingers, tossing cuts into the air, overhand and underhand, sending the cards into waterfalls and accordions. Steve would make small sounds of wonder, encouraging Bucky to go on.

A few times he caught Steve watching his hands rather than the cards, and Bucky grinned even more, having an inkling of what he might be thinking about.

Bucky had been propositioned for handjobs when he worked the streets, and he’d heard plenty of comments about his hands. Steve seemed like too much of a gentleman to say anything though, and that was probably for the best. Customers like _that_ usually faced a prompt ban from the carnival.

He finished off his shuffle with one last trick where he flared the deck out in a circle, the whole thing looking like a saw blade, and then balanced the center on the back of his knuckle. One flick and he had the deck spinning in the same way one would spin a basketball on their finger.

Steve gave a low, impressed whistle. “You’re good at that”

“I’d hope so, I spent a long time practicing” Bucky smiled, stopping the spin and pushing the cards back into a deck. He set them down in the center of the table. “ _But_ , you didn’t just come here for a show”

“You’re right; I came here wondering about your sign” Steve teased, less flustered now that he’d had time to get over his earlier fumbles.

Bucky made an exaggerated shrug and waved dismissively, “Eh, tom-ato, tom-a-to, you’re here now”

Steve chortled, then looked down at the deck curiously. “So, uh, how does this work?” he asked.

Bucky went over the explanation with ease. “You ask the deck a question, and it’ll give an answer. You can ask nearly anything, past, present, future; or the solution to a problem. Most anything really, but I’ll let you know if your question won’t work. It helps to be specific.

“The answer you get might be vague though, and you’ll need to pull the meaning from it yourself- I can only tell you what the cards say, you’re the one with a better understanding of your life”

Steve raised a brow. “Aren’t fortune tellers supposed to be all-knowing?”

Bucky huffed. “The _cards_ are all knowing. I’m just the poor guy stuck reading them” he said- and wasn’t that the goddamn truth.

“So I’m gonna have to do all the work here, huh?” Steve asked, but he sounded amused. He crossed his arms and leaned them on the table, sitting forward to get a better look at the deck.

“Not necessarily. Sometimes these things give you something specific. _Very_ specific” Bucky added, smile falling. He didn’t want to ruin the mood, but he had to give the warning regardless, for his own peace of mind.

Steve’s own smile grew smaller, picking up on the shift in tone. “I, uh, okay?”

“When you got your question ready, ask it, then touch the top of the deck. _Don’t_ draw a card” Bucky warned.

Steve chuckled. “Why, does it bite?”

Bucky didn’t smile at the joke, and Steve frowned. He leaned back a little, looking uncertain. “Sorry, did I say something…?”

Bucky let out a breath, giving a weak smile. “It’s fine, I’m just- I get carried away with the cards” he said as an excuse. This was why he kept a distance with customers, it made this part easier to get across without sounding like an ass.

Steve didn’t look wholly convinced, but he didn’t leave either. He held Bucky’s gaze for another moment, then looked down at the cards.

“I don’t really have any big questions… can I ask about my future, in general?” he asked uncertainly.

“Absolutely, just know that they can get pretty vague on that front. They’ll say something like ‘you’ll live until you die and you’ll meet some people and do some things, yadda yadda’” Bucky said with a grin, trying to defuse the tension.

That got a small smile out of Steve, who relaxed a little more into his seat.

“Alright, I, uh. I guess… What will my future be?” he asked, then reached for the cards. His hand paused just above the deck, hesitating. He looked to Bucky again, but Bucky kept his face passively pleasant. He wasn’t allowed to influence the question asker at this point.

Steve held his gaze, brow furrowing. “Maybe we should stop-” he started to say, but his hand lowered enough to brush the top of the cards, and it was too late.

Pain flared in Bucky’s wrists as invisible cords jerked his hands forward, and he couldn’t hold back his cry. Steve pulled his hand away at the sound, eyes going wide in shock.

Bucky’s hands smacked down on the deck, his fingers curling around it like claws as he pulled it back.

Bucky’s mind was in a panic of _no no No NO NO NO-NO!_ _Not again! NOT AGAIN!_ but he couldn’t stop, _he could never stop._

He pulled the first card and flipped it, compulsion driving him beyond any control.

He lay down the card, showing a man on a mountain that looked over a city, his back shunning society.

The Hermit, inverted.

“What- are you okay? Do you- _christ, you’re bleeding_ ” Steve said in sudden horror, eyes cast down.

Bucky saw it too. Fresh cuts, like someone had taken a set of wires and pulled them too tight, breaking the skin open in a perfect loop around his wrists. Blood dripped down, droplets spattering on the table. He couldn’t stop. _He couldn’t stop._

“Your life is dull, isolated, lonely. You have no family. Your friends are few and occupied with their own lives. You are a creature of monotony, listless in your own existence and content in it, save for one” Bucky said, voice quavering. “You seek a connection to something of worth, something to give you purpose that you may cherish. You seek another soul”

He pulled the next card. It showed a shadowed figure in a cloak, the night sky above them taken up by a huge white orb.

The Moon.

“James? What-what’s happening, do you need-”

Bucky cut him off, the words forced up and out.

“You will be tempted by one who is hidden in darkness and secrecy, who will flee from your pursuit”

Blood dripped from the cuts onto the card, leaving a fat splatter on the moon, turning it red. He pulled the next cards.

Steve’s hands shot out and grabbed his arms above the cuts, trying to stop him.

“James, what do you need?” he asked desperately, his eyes fearful. Bucky could only yank his hands out of the grip and put the next card down.

A huge building loomed, lightning striking behind it. Flames burst out of the windows, and cracks ran up the sides.

The Tower.

“Your life will be disturbed and thrown in upheaval. Everything you hold familiar will be gone, the life you have cultivated will be thrown into chaos” he spoke harshly, wishing so badly for it to stop stop _stop!_

Steve had gone quiet, his hands now gripping the table so hard his knuckles were white. Bucky could only keep going, drawing the next two cards in succession.

The one showed a man kneeling next to a white wolf, his hands holding its jaw with care. The wolf looked feral, teeth bared in ferocity, but the man was calm and unbothered. The other showed a cloaked man holding four pentacles protectively, hiding them from the world.

Strength, and the Four of Pentacles.

“Your strength of character will weather your troubles and break barriers that would hold others back. When all else would fail, your compassion will carry your forward.

“The objective you seek is obscured in fear and paranoia. It is precious, it is coveted, and it is kept shielded, even from you”

His tears started to fall, flowing heavy down his face. The pain in his wrists screamed, the ropes still pulling at the broken flesh. The tablecloth had splotches of dark stains as his hands moved and dripped blood over it, painting the cards in the same ugly red of the stars.

Panic threatened to grip him but he forced it down. He’d lain five cards already, there was only one more to go. One more and he could be done with it, and whatever tragedy would befall this man.

He lay the last card down to see the-

_No._

_NO!_

_No, not that one._ _Please, not that one_ , he begged. This was wrong, this was _wrong!_ This card wasn’t supposed to be in the deck.

This was the abhorrent, the cursed, the one card nobody else was ever, _ever_ supposed to get.

The Prisoner.

The man in likeness to Bucky stared up at him from where he lay on the table, bound in chains, oppressed by the sky of red stars.

A broken, animal cry fell from Bucky’s throat, his fear spiking at the sight of the card. Steve had gone pale, and he made a helpless noise at Bucky’s cry. This stupid, _stupid_ man didn’t even know what he’d wrought. The Prisoner was meant for Bucky, and Bucky alone. What was it doing here for Steve?

Bucky opened his mouth for the tarot’s words to explain it, but nothing came. Instead the ropes tugged at his hands and he cried out in pain. _Six! It’s only ever six!_ There were never more than six cards, _what was this?_

His throat felt scraped raw, his wrists ached beyond the flesh and into the bone. He wanted it to end. True terror gripped his heart in a way he hadn’t felt for _years_. _Would_ this end? How many more cards would he be made to suffer through?

As Bucky’s hand pulled from the deck, he looked up to Steve, his face twisted in anguish. Who was this man? _What was he?_

He pulled the seventh card, laying it perpendicular on top of the Prisoner. It showed a man surrounded by eight swords, each one acting as a bar to his prison.

The Eight of Swords.

The words were pulled out of him by rusted hooks. A single sentence.

“At your will, the Prisoner will be bound for life”

_You will be confined to your fate._

_You will be bound to your death._

Bucky couldn’t breathe. That was meant for him. That last message was directed to _him_. He couldn’t- how was- it wasn’t-

The cards had read him. The cards had _read him_.

Tears blurred his vision as he tried to gasp and he couldn’t breathe- he couldn’t _breathe_ -

“James, _James_ , I need you to take a deep breath with me. Come on, take a deep breath, follow me” someone said beyond the dark spots flashing in his vision. Someone gently took his hand and lay it on something warm and solid- someone’s chest, and he felt the rise and fall as they took slow, even breaths.

“That’s it, in for four, out for eight, breathe with me”

Bucky pulled his focus to that warmth and the slow movements under his palm, and slowly he started to follow along, in and out until his breathing evened and the spots at his vision cleared. In his panic he hadn’t noticed the reading had ended and that the cards had dropped their hold on him.

He blinked away the tears to see a pair of striking blue eyes looking up at him with concern. It was- this was _Steve_ , kneeling next to him and trying to calm him down.

_You will be bound to your death._

Terror gripped him again, and the sight of Steve made him recoil. He stumbled out of his chair and away, his back pressing against the fabric of the tent.

“ _Get out_ ” he cried venomously, pulling his bleeding wrists up against his stomach.

“You’re bleeding, do you- is there a medical tent somewhere? Can I get someone for you? Is- do you have medication you need to take?” Steve asked softly, still kneeling on the floor.

“Get OUT!” Bucky yelled, his voice cracking and going hoarse.

“Please, you’re hurt. I won’t come closer, but you need to see someone about your wrists-”

Bucky fled, stumbling out the back of the tent. His legs wouldn’t move fast enough and his breath stalled, forcing him to lean on the back of another booth. He choked though each gasp and his stomach roiled so hard he had to bend over to vomit.

He caught his breath again and pushed off, desperate to get somewhere safe, but his legs collapsed without the support of the booth. He fell over, crying out when he caught himself on his hands and jostled his wrists.

He collapsed into the grass, moaning in pain, his arms trapped under his own body that had grown too weak to move.

A pair of hands softly gripped him and turned him over, relieving the weight on his hands. He looked up to see it was Steve again, his face showing fearful concern.

“ _Get away_ ” Bucky barked, flinching away from his touch.

“I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, but I can’t leave you like this. I’m really sorry” Steve kept repeating as he hooked his arms under Bucky

“ _Don’t touch me”_ Bucky cried- but too late, Steve was lifting him like he weighed nothing.

He fought as best he could, pushing against Steve’s chest to get out of the bridal carry he was in, all the while crying for Steve to _put him down_ , for Steve to _get away from him_ , for Steve to _stop!_

It was no use though, and Steve kept his hold as he took him to… Bucky didn’t even know where they were going. Nothing was making sense. Steve kept up his own litany of apologies that did nothing for Bucky as he was seized with fear.

This man would make his life with the cards worse somehow, worse than it had ever been, and the thought of that sent terror through Bucky. He needed to get away from him, he needed Steve to _get away_.

The more Bucky fought, however, the weaker he got. The black dots returned to his vision and nausea filled his throat. His ears started ringing, blocking out even Bucky’s own cries, until the world grew red and hazy with it…


	5. Two of Wands

Steve hurried with James in his arms, the man gripped in the throes of a panic attack- if not something worse- and badly hurt.

He made his way towards the trailers tucked away at the back of the carnival, the direction James had been going in. Big events like these always had a medical tent, or a first aid kit at the least. There had to be someone at those trailers who’d know where it was, or knew how to help better than Steve.

“Help! I need help here!” he called when he got closer, spotting a group of people sitting in cheap plastic chairs around campfire.

Heads turned at his call, and half the people stood when they saw him carrying someone.

“Aw bud, your friend drink too much-?” one started to ask, but his voice cut out in a gasp- as did several others- when Steve entered the firelight and they got a look at the blood on Steve’s face and chest where James had tried shoving at him.

“Jesus, somebody get Sharon!” one of them yelled.

“Oh fuck, it’s Bucky!” someone else exclaimed, and Steve missed the rest over the din of people yelling over each other.

“Here, bring him here” someone directed, a woman grabbing his arm and pulling him along. Steve followed her to one of the nearby trailers, up the steps and insides where a couch had been pulled out to form a cot. She hastily laid some towels down and directed Steve to put James on top.

James was still thrashing feebly, and Steve apologized one more time as he lay him down, backing away as soon as he could. James quieted almost immediately, curling up into a tight ball with his head tucked in and his hair obscuring his face. His breathing started to pick up again, turning into painful sobs.

“Is there anything I can do?” Steve asked as the woman who’d directed him sat by James and shushed him quietly. She looked up briefly and shook her head, pointing to the door.

“You should step out, take a seat. Management’s going to want to talk with you”

_Make sure to cut the strings._

Steve’s mouth almost opened to say it, the thought dropped into his mind like a stone in a pond, before he stopped himself. His mind was all over the place, too much had happened.

Instead he nodded numbly while the woman turned back to James.

He cast one more look to the shaking man, and then stepped out to give them more space.

Outside the trailer a small group had gathered, waiting around anxiously and trying to peek in. Most had moved their plastic chairs to sit closer without crowding the place.

All eyes locked on Steve as he stepped out, and he hesitated a moment before speaking.

“She said I, uh, I should wait here. To talk to the management”

A beat, and then, “Well pull up a seat, son” and another chair was set down for him at the edge of the group.

Steve went and sat, mindful of the eyes on him. The man who’d set the seat out for him pulled a rag from his pocket.

“Ey, pass that water here” he called, and then soaked the cloth with it. He turned and handed it to Steve. “You got blood on you” he explained, indicating Steve should wash his face.

Steve took it with a quiet thanks, wiping his face and noting the bright red streaks that came away. He looked down at his chest, more blood smeared on his jacket and white shirt. It came off the leather decently, but he’d be stuck with the bloody shirt until he changed.

A woman suddenly rushed through the seated group, a large first-aid kit in hand as she shot up the steps and disappeared into the trailer. On her tail was another woman, her hair pulled back tightly. She was dressed for business in a blouse and slacks that stuck out from the more casual clothes of the rest.

She paused to give Steve an assessing look, and motioned over a stout man with a large mustache. She whispered something in a low voice, eyeing Steve between words, then moved to enter the trailer.

The man she’d been whispering to came up to Steve, a neutral look on his face. “Come with me, sir” he said, and Steve stood to follow, still a little dazed. A trail of eyes followed them until they turned a corner.

He was led to another trailer, bigger than the rest, and taken inside. The place looked more like an office than a living space, with two desks overflowing with papers and odd assortments of props.

“Take a seat” the mustached man instructed, pointing to one of the smaller chairs, “management’ll be with you shortly”

Steve sat, aware of the worker’s gaze boring into his back, and he couldn’t help fidgeting in his seat. He tried reading some of the papers on the desk to keep his mind busy, skimming over what looked like invoices and permit forms, when his eyes caught on a flier-

The door opened again, pulling his attention away. At the door was the woman again, the one who’d told the worker to bring Steve here.

“Thank you Dugan, you can wait outside” she said, striding in and taking a seat behind the desk just as the man stepped out. She leaned forward in her seat, and Steve had the impression of being a student at the principal’s desk.

“I’m Maria Hill, the co-owner of the carnival” she introduced, and it took Steve a second to realize she was waiting for him to do the same.

“Oh, I’m Steve. Rogers” he stammered.

“Can you tell me what happened, exactly?”

Steve opened his mouth, then closed it. What _had_ happened? He hadn’t had a chance to reflect on it yet, and now that he tried to…

One moment they were talking, and then suddenly James was making the most pained noise Steve had ever heard. He’d started reading Steve’s fortune like it was being tortured out of him, drawing one card after another in some sort of desperation. Steve had barely been able to make sense of the words.

And his _wrists_. Steve hadn’t seen any blades or wires that could’ve done that- but then again, that was exactly how magicians worked, wasn’t it? Smoke and mirrors, hidden strings. They must’ve been there to help him do those card tricks.

There were wires on his wrists- there _had_ to be, Steve _knew_ there had to be, he swore he caught a glimpse of them- and they’d started cutting into his skin when he’d had his… panic attack? Breakdown? Steve didn’t know what to call it.

He hadn’t known what to do, and he waited out whatever episode James was having, hoping for it to pass. And then when it had…

Well, here he was.

Steve did his best to relate everything he’d seen, and waited as Maria took a moment to process.

She tapped one of her fingers against the desk as she looked him up and down, the nail making a _clack-clack-clack_ sound in the silence.

“Well, on behalf of the _Hill-Fury_ _Carnivàle_ , I’d like to extend an _apology_ ” she said tersely, “for any _inconvenience_ our employee may have caused-”

Steve leaned forward, motioning for her to stop. “No, please don’t. He didn’t do anything wrong” he said quickly. She gave him another suspicious look, and Steve went on. “Seriously, it’s not a problem at all, I just wanted to make sure he was okay” he said, then added, “ _Is_ he okay?”

Maria’s posture didn’t loosen, and Steve swore he saw her mouth twitch in a sneer.

“He was awake and talking when I spoke to him. Our on-staff nurse stopped the bleeding, she doesn’t think he’ll need to go to the hospital for this. He’s claiming it was an accident, so we won’t be bringing the police into the matter”

Steve nodded, relieved that James was okay. “Good, that’s… good” he said, then swallowed, knowing it was a longshot but needing to ask, “Can I see him? I just want to say I’m sorry for carrying him, he didn’t want to be touched, but I- I couldn’t leave him like that-”

Maria was shaking her head before he’d even finished asking. “He’d like to be left alone”

“Alright” Steve said, trying not to show his disappointment. “Would you mind telling him… tell him that I hope he feels better. And that I’m sorry?”

“I’ll let him know. Now if you wouldn’t mind signing this liability form-”

The door opened suddenly, a woman peeking in hurriedly.

“Maria, there’s a situation at the tent”

“Can it wait?”

“It’s another _Buster_ , and Fury’s busy dealing with a pack of _Holie_ _s_ ”

Maria frowned, and Steve picked up that it was some kind of shorthand code for whatever problem they were facing.

A blank form was thrust into Steve’s hands as Maria stood, making her way out. “If you’d fill that out, I’ll only be a minute and you can be on your way” she said, and then the door was slamming shut, leaving Steve alone.

He leaned back in his seat. He could hear the muffled voices of passing workers outside, but otherwise it was quiet inside the little room of the trailer. He breathed a deep sigh, his shoulders finally relaxing now that he was alone without any hostile glares trained on him.

He let his eyes skim over the form, noting what he needed to fill- name, address, contact information, and signature. Near as he could tell, it essentially absolved both Steve _and_ the carnival of any blame from either side.

He didn’t see the point of it, if anything he ought to give some kind of recompense for whatever he did that upset James so much, but it sounded like they rather wipe their hands of him.

He lay the form on the desk and reached for one of the pens sitting in a nearby mug, when his eyes caught again on the colourful flier sitting in the mess of papers. It was tacky and a little painful to look at, especially from an artist’s perspective, yet something about it tugged on an unnamed feeling he didn’t want to explore right now.

_Your life is dull._

Without thinking too hard about it, he picked up the sheet and folded it into his pants pocket.

Then he focused back on the form, and occupied himself with filling out his information.

* * *

His heart was beating in his throat, to tight, _too tight_ , everything was closing in too fast.

Pressure at his shoulders, a soft voice talking to him. The tension slowly melted, but there were waves still crashing in his ears and it was noise, all just noise. Black spots filled most of his vision and left him with a small tunnel of light. He was lying down, somewhere warm and inside, and a numbing force held him still. He let himself become calcified in it, protected from anything beyond.

The touch moved to his bicep, to his elbow, then gently pulled. He let it move his arms, feeling that same soft touch and voice blanket him.

There was a terrible stinging and he flinched, the voice growing a little louder but no less soothing, and he slowly relaxed again. A pressure was at his hands, and the more he listened the more he could understand what the voice was saying, telling him he was okay.

The fog gradually faded as his vision and hearing cleared, until he was blinking back into awareness.

Bucky lifted his head a little, and through the curtain of his hair he saw Sharon’s face. She kept up a litany of assurances as she wrapped his wrists in bandages, just finishing her work.

He swallowed back the acrid taste in his mouth and tried to speak, only for a small croak to move past his lips.

Sharon looked up and smiled in relief, gently laying his hand back down on the bed.

“Hey, you doing okay?”

Bucky licked his lips and tried again. “Been better” he said.

“I’ll say” someone else spoke, and he turned his head to spot Maria, leaning with her back against the door as if to keep it barricaded shut.

Bucky grimaced. If Maria had decided to get involved, it meant he’d really fucked up. He didn’t blame her though- he’d started bleeding out _in front of a customer._ Again.

“If you’re up for it, can you tell us what happened?” Maria asked, her voice carefully neutral.

He sighed quietly and carefully moved to sit up, Sharon helping him so he didn’t put pressure on his wrists.

“It was an accident” he tried, tucking his arms against his stomach.

Maria crossed her arms. “I’ve got Dum Dum watching the guy, say the word and we’ll press charges”

A shiver ran up his spine. _No police,_ he thought helplessly.

“He didn’t do anything” he said quickly, looking Maria in the eye. In this he could be honest, and he sat unflinching as she stared him down- but he could see she wasn’t buying it.

“You’ve got the whole carnival at your back, there’s nothing he can do to you that we can’t stop” Sharon added gently, still kneeling by the side of the cot.

Bucky shook his head, gritting his teeth. He hated being in this position, hated the lies he had to tell because of the cards. He looked down bitterly at the bandages on his wrists, knowing what he had to say.

“I did it to myself” he muttered, avoiding eye contact now. He had to sell it.

“You don’t have to defend him-”

“I said I did it to myself!” he snapped, pulling his arms more tightly against his stomach, almost hugging his waist. “You know how I am” he hissed.

This wasn’t the first time this had happened. Sharon had wrapped his wrist many times throughout his four years at the carnival- it was no secret to them. Nick and Maria always let it slide, but he knew one day it would be too much.

Was today going to be the final straw? It had been a while since he’d last lived on the streets, but he’d pick it up again- he wouldn’t have much choice.

He held back a bitter laugh. Was this how Steve ruined his life? It was a pitiable attempt if it was.

“Bucky” Maria said, her eyes hard when he looked at her.

“I’m going to ask you one more time if this guy did anything,” she continued, “and I want you to be honest. We can keep your name out of it, we can even hide you if that’s what you want, but don’t let your personal fears stop you. Know that whatever you say, I’ll believe you”

That was a laugh. Nobody believed him, and the ones who did only took advantage- but he understood what she meant. It would’ve been heartwarming if the situation weren’t as complex as it was.

He took a breath and looked her in the eye.

“I had an episode. I cut myself. He didn’t do anything wrong” he said, every word heavy in the air between them. She wouldn’t buy a word of it, but she’d backed herself into a corner with her promise.

They held each other’s gaze for another moment, then Maria backed down. “Alright,” she said unhappily, “I’ll send him on his way. You’re going to take the rest of the week off, check in with Sharon as many times as she asks”

Bucky nodded, accepting the concession. Maria turned to leave, but she paused to give him another look, this one kinder than the last.

“I’m glad you’re okay, and if you want to talk, you know where my trailer is” she said, then left without waiting for his response.

Bucky sighed, letting himself slouch. He moved his hands to his lap and scowled at them.

“Bucky…” Sharon said, her voice trailing off but her eyes telling him everything she wanted to say.

“Don’t” he said, sounding every bit as bone-weary as he felt. “I just wanna go to my trailer and sleep. Is that okay?”

Sharon frowned sympathetically, and she reached for her bag. “I’ll come with you-” he opened his mouth to argue, but she cut him off, “-no, no arguments, if your cuts get worse, I’ll need to re-bandage them” she said.

He knew that by ‘worse’ she meant if he hurt himself again. The lie might conveniently explain away what the cards did, but there was a still a cost.

Fine, whatever, it was better than staying here in…

Whose trailer was he in, anyway?

“Whose trailer is this?” he asked, looking around at the unfamiliar setup.

“Hope’s. She had that guy bring you in here before she got rid of him”

Bucky’s brow furrowed, but then it came back to him- Steve had picked him up after he’d collapsed. And then he must’ve carried Bucky to the trailers at the back, looking to find help.

Steve really seemed like a good person, and it was hard to believe he could do anything as horrible as the cards said.

Still, it was for the best he let Maria send Steve on his way. She’d be professional about it, and he didn’t see Steve leaving with a grudge that might come back to bite him. At least he hoped not.

“Remind me to apologize to her later” Bucky said, casting a look down at the bloody towels as he stood. Even with the covering, he’d managed to get a few smears on Hope’s sheets.

“How about I remind you to thank her instead?” Sharon said lightly, linking her arm with his as they made their way out. Bucky rolled his eyes at her little jab of positivity which she ignored, opening the door for him.

He followed her out and kept his head down, waving meekly to the small crowd who’d gathered outside. There were calls from people saying they were glad he was okay, and he let a small smile play on his face, even if the kindness still made him uncomfortable.

Sharon led him back to his trailer, opening the door for him there too.

“I’ll help you cleanup and change into some pj’s, then we can get you some juice before bed”

“I’m not a _child_ ” Bucky scoffed, though he was familiar with this routine already.

“Well you’re not bending your wrists until tomorrow” she said, rummaging through his messy drawers for a decently clean pair of pajama pants and loose shirt.

While she did that, Bucky slowly took off his jewelry and unwrapped his shawl, throwing the whole thing into a pile under the vanity.

Sharon returned with his change of clothes and set them aside, having him sit on the couch next to her so she could clean the runny makeup and blood off his face with the wet wipes. Bucky managed not to grumble _too_ much while she did.

Then she helped ease him out of his clothes and into his nightwear, both their senses of modesty long gone after spending their fair share helping out backstage in the burlesque tent. The fact that Sharon used to be a full-time nurse, now licensed as one of their four carnival medics, also helped. She’d seen it all at this point.

She was also the only medic Bucky was comfortable letting help him- he didn’t trust the others on the same level he did with her.

She’d joined the carnival only a few months after him, and the two of them had instantly clicked when they shared a table, talking over lunch- or more accurately, Sharon talking and Bucky listening. He’d still been hiding in his shell back then, wary of too good of a thing, but Sharon hadn’t set his hackles rising in anxious fear.

It was funny, thinking back on it, how low his bar had been set.

She’d also been the first to discover his ‘condition’, finding him sneaking to his trailer with his wrists oozing blood, his poor attempt at staunching them with his shawl barely working. It took several months to get her to stop hovering over him, and she still tried to set him up with counselors, leaving brochures for helplines and websites in his trailer when he wasn’t looking.

It was sweet, and if he was _actually_ hurting himself, he probably would’ve checked those websites by now.

But he wasn’t, so he didn’t, and he threw them away when she wasn’t looking.

He expected another brochure would magically appear in his trailer again in the coming days, and Sharon’s company to follow him around as well.

Eventually he’d assure her he was fine. Work would put a little more distance between them and they’d return to normal. Then in a few months he’d get another heavy reading- some imminent death or tragedy, and he’d bleed again, and they’d start the cycle all over.

But as Sharon helped tuck him into bed, putting a pillow under his wrists to keep them elevated, he couldn’t stop thinking about this particular read.

It _had_ been about Steve at first, all the way until the end, when the cards suddenly turned inwards to himself.

_You will be confined to your fate._

_You will be bound to your death._

What did it mean? The cards didn’t always give a clear answer, it was left for the person to interpret, but Bucky couldn’t see how else that could be read. He was already confined to his fate with the cards, would be until his eventual death, so what more could the cards ruin?

Would he die? Would Steve cause his death early?

It might not happen, though. He remembered his last words of Steve’s reading, before the cards jumped to Bucky:

_At your will, the Prisoner will be bound for life._

_At your will_ , the cards had said. There was still a choice, one only Steve could make.

That was fine, wasn’t it? That was easy enough to avoid. Maria would’ve sent Steve home by now, probably a little shaken, but ultimately fine. This would all just be another anecdote for him; that time he saw a crazy fortune teller bleed all over the table.

“You good, any discomfort?” Sharon asked, pulling the blanket over his shoulders.

“Yeah, I’m fine” he answered.

“Thirsty, hungry? You want a painkiller?”

“I’d like some quiet so I can sleep” he said cheekily, though it wasn’t quite a lie. His lids felt heavy with exhaustion, the adrenaline crash hitting hard.

Sharon thumped him gently on the head with her fingers, mouth twisted in amusement, though worry still shone in her eyes.

“Alright. I’ll be out here if you need anything, just call” she said, backing out from the little alcove where his bed folded out. She closed the privacy curtain and moved away.

He heard her quietly shuffling around, probably setting up blankets on the couch for herself. He’d bet anything that as soon as Clint got back there’s be a very hushed argument as he tried to give Sharon his bed- fifty-fifty odds it would work.

He closed his eyes and shifted into a more comfortable position, careful to keep his hands on the pillow Sharon had set up for him. His wrists pulsed with a familiar ache, the skin knitting back together.

Tomorrow when Sharon changed his bandages, she wouldn’t mention how odd it was that the skin had sealed- she never did- and he’d have to field a couple dozen visitors as people stopped by throughout the day to check on him.

For now though, as his mind drifted into the void of sleep, he could relax. He shifted his head on the pillow, but paused when he felt a lump under his cheek.

With a sigh he carefully reached under the pillow and pulled out the tarot deck. He dropped them onto the mattress near his head, within his line of sight as he lay back down.

“What the fuck was all that? You _never_ read me” he whispered.

With a small flick, he flipped the top card of the deck onto the bed sheet.

The card showed a familiar figure chained under a sky of red stars.

_The Prisoner does not ask questions._

“Thanks” he whispered sarcastically, then put the card back on top of the deck. He left the pile of cards where they were, too tired to move them any further, and sighed once more.

He closed his eyes, trying his best not to think about the future. It never did him any good.

* * *

The manager let him go after he finished signing the form, and he’d left the trailer to find not one, but _five_ carnival workers waiting to escort him out.

He followed them as they led him through the small maze of trailers, eventually spitting him back out at the main carnival area, a short distance from the exit.

“You can find your way from here” the one with thick mustache said, indicating the parking lot beyond the darkened ticket booths.

Steve tried to smile in gratitude, though the hard look they were giving him didn’t incite the feeling that it was welcome. “Thank you” he said anyway, waving as he back away.

He turned and made his way out, feeling their eyes follow him until he got passed the gates, then breathed a tired sigh of relief. This night had taken an unexpected turn, and he was left wishing for nothing but his bed right now.

He looked back at the carnival and saw the small trickle of people still leaving, the hour late enough that everything had closed. He and Michelle would be among the last people to go home-

Oh, fuck.

_Michelle._

He hastily pulled his phone out of his pocket, remembering he’d put it on silent for the show earlier. The moment he saw the little red notification of _eight_ missed calls and _twenty_ text messages, he knew he was in for it.

Swallowing, he straightened his shoulders resolutely and hit Michelle’s number.

The phone was on the second ring when she picked up.

“Hey, Michelle, I’m _so sorry_ -”

“ _STEVE?!”_ her voice boomed, and he pulled the phone away from his ear.

“ _ARE YOU OKAY?! WHERE ARE YOU?!”_ she yelled urgently, her voice easily heard despite the phone being held an arm’s length away.

“I’m fine, I’m okay, _everything’s okay_. Something happened and I had to see the manager, I just got out now” he said quickly.

“ _The manager?!”_

“Yeah, there was- some stuff happened, I was helping someone who got hurt-”

“ _And you couldn’t send a text?!”_

“I forgot and I’m _really sorry_ -”

“ _Do you know,”_ she started irately, “ _how embarrassing it is to tell someone you lost a_ _WHOLE MAN_ _? Because I do! I had to tell these big muscly dudes that I lost a whole ass man! And then I had a woman come up and tell me ‘honey, he’s not worth it’, and I damn near agreed!”_

“I’m sorry-”

“ _Stop saying sorry and tell me where you are!”_

Steve glanced up at the gate. “I’m at the, uh, the entrance near Chesterfield”

“… _of course you are”_

“What’s the problem?”

“ _Steve, I want you to think really hard about where you parked the car”_

Oh.

“Oh”

“ _Uh-huh”_

He’d parked in the lot off Markham Street. On the opposite side of the carnival.

And the keys were in his pocket.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes”

Eight minutes later and he was coming up to his car, seeing the outline of Michelle sitting on the hood.

“What the hell, Steve!?” she barked, hopping off the hood. She crossed her arms, the dark hiding whatever angry expression she wore.

“I’m _so sorry_ -”

“What the hell!?”

“I can explain-”

“Oh, you’re damn right you’re gonna explain! I’ve been sitting out here for twenty minutes, spent the last _thirty_ before that looking for you, and why the hell do you have a phone if you’re not gonna answer it?!”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, feeling deservedly chastised. “Can we sit in the car for this? I’ll explain everything” he mumbled, unlocking the doors.

“This better be a damn good explanation, there better be some life-saving heroics going on- _oh my god!”_ Michelle exclaimed, as they sat, looking at Steve’s chest with wide eyes.

He looked down to see all the blood still smeared on his shirt, standing stark against the overhead light inside the car.

“You said you were alright!”

“Oh, no, it’s fine. It’s, uh, not my blood”

“That’s not better! What the hell happened!? Whose blood is that?!”

“I, there was- fuck” Steve took a breath, flustered from Michelle’s urgency.

“Did somebody _die?”_

“No, nobody _died_ , it’s not as bad as it looks. Just- so, after I left the tent, I was walking around-”

Steve explained what happened, going over the important points again.

“They kept me around until the manager could show up and ask me what happened, and then I had to stick around and sign some paperwork, and it’s completely my fault for leaving my phone on silent. I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think about you” he finished, apologizing again.

“Well shit” she muttered, leaning back in her seat. The wind had been taken out of her anger as he’d told the story, and now she was looking out the front window in consideration.

“Yeah, it’s… there was a lot happening”

“Okay, so _I’m_ sorry for yelling at you,” she said, “but you still deserved it a little for not answering your phone”

“That’s fair” Steve nodded.

“Okay. Good. And I’m glad you were there to help, that was a good thing you did”

“Oh, uh, thanks?” Steve said, self-conscious from the praise.

They sat in silence for a moment.

“Okay, now gimme the keys, you ain’t driving after all that” she said, holding her hand out and making a _‘gimme’_ motion.

Steve didn’t argue, and they made short work of switching seats. There was another awkward moment while Steve silently sat in the passenger seat, waiting for Michelle to adjust his driver’s seat so she could see over the wheel.

“You’re also staying at Sam’s tonight, and no arguments” she pointed at him before he could say anything, keeping her eyes on the road as she started the car and pulled out of the lot. “He’s got spare shirts you can borrow, you can get cleaned and sleep on his couch, and tomorrow you’re gonna have a full breakfast with us. _Then_ you can go home”

Steve nodded, smiling weakly. Honestly, he just wanted to sleep, and he didn’t much care where.

As Michelle drove them back, the radio on low, Steve shifted his hand to feel the folded paper in his pocket.

He thought about James, and how much fear had been in his eyes, and what he’d said to Steve before it all went wrong.

He didn’t remember all of it, he’d had other concerns at the time, but those first few words echoed in his mind now, vague and muddled.

_Your life is dull. You’re a creature of monotony._

He didn’t know why those words stuck with him, or why they bothered him so much. He _liked_ his life. It was simple, he’d give it that, but he was comfortable and content. He had a house, a steady job doing art, and a non-zero amount of friends. He was happy. _He was_ _happy_.

So why had that flier on the desk called to him so much?

It was more than just the gaudy design and bright colours. Something about it struck a cord with him, and the thought of it wouldn’t go away.

He watched the buildings and trees fly by as they drove, thinking about the flier and all it’s implications. Thinking about how that piece of paper represented the antithesis of Steve’s life summarized in a few lines of text.

More than anything, though, he was thinking about a man with a kind voice and soft eyes, whose red nails had caught his attention so thoroughly.


	6. Temperance

“Mapon”

_Thap._

Steve grunted irritably at the light smack on his cheek.

“Mapon”

_Thap._

His face was smooshed into the thick throw pillow of the couch, affording him only the one eye to blink open blearily, the blurred shape of Mona coming into view.

“Mapon” Mona repeated, then gently smacked her chubby hand at his cheek with another _thap._

“I’m up, I’m up” he groaned, voice rusty with sleep.

“Mapon _-_ _y_ _”_ she said more forcefully, and Steve nodded, sitting up.

“Yeah, okay, My Little Pony” he agreed, rubbing one hand over his face while the other reached for the remote on the coffee table across from him, turning the television on. It was already set to a children’s channel, and Mona gave a half-thought _tank you_ as she scooted onto the couch in the space his legs had previously been taking up, her full attention on the screen.

Steve ignored the manic energy of the toy commercial playing, leaning forward and groaning again, feeling groggy. He squinted at the tv box for the time- a little before eight in the morning. Barely five hours of sleep.

He could feel the indentation of the pillow on his face, his mouth tacky and his eyes still sticky, each blink an effort. He exhaled deeply, sinking back into the couch. He’d just rest his eyes for a little bit until he woke up more…

“Hey”

“ _Hrm?”_ Steve groaned, blinking his eyes open again.

Sam was standing by the couch, looking down at him with an amused expression.

“Good time last night?” he asked while Steve sat up, wincing at his stiff neck. He looked over to the television, which was now turned off, the time reading eleven in the morning. He glanced over to see the couch empty, part of the blanket still curved around where Mona had been sitting, the girl now gone from the living room.

“What?” Steve asked, rubbing the crick out of his neck.

Sam grinned. “You and Mish got in _late_ , man. We didn’t even hear you come in. And not that I’m complainin’, but I would’ve thought you’d go home after”

“Yeah, she didn’t want me goin’ home alone” Steve mumbled, blinking away the last of the sleep in his eyes.

Sam raised a brow. “What, you actually drank last night?”

“You _know_ I don’t drink. It was- just, some stuff happened”

“Oh, _stuff_ happened” Sam said with a laugh. “That why I wake up to find this on the washer?” he asked, handing Steve a post-it note.

Steve held it up, reading the scribbled message written on it.

 _Steve ruined his clothes  
_ _Lent him yours  
_ _Don’t open_

“Ruined your clothes, huh?” Sam asked, and his eyes pointedly fell to the shirt and shorts Steve was wearing, both of which Michelle had stolen from somewhere in the house last night.

Steve was suddenly glad Sam hadn’t opened the washing machine. He had a feeling Sam wouldn’t be so cheery if he’d seen the bloodied contents.

“Yeeeah, it’s not… a fun story” Steve said slowly, unsure how to broach the subject.

“Oh” Sam said, the teasing gone from his voice, replaced with a sympathetic look. “Shit, sorry. You wanna talk about it or- no, you know what, I came you get you for breakfast, we got a spread goin’. You can tell or not tell me about it after”

Steve smiled gratefully, thanking Sam as he stood, the two of them making their way to the kitchen.

The smell of bacon was the first thing to greet him, followed by the sight of a generous spread of pancakes, eggs, bacon, and toast, along with a small bowl of berries. The third to greet him was Mona, who waved to him at the same time as she stuffed a plastic forkful of cut-up pancake into her mouth.

“Hey Mona. Riley” he greeted the two, the other man already seated and eating from his own plate.

“Morning. I hear it was a rough night” Riley said, grinning as he ate.

Sam cleared his throat, giving Riley a look. Steve kept his gaze down at the table as he loaded his plate, letting the two quietly communicate in private. When he was done, Riley was notably less teasing, just as Sam had been.

“So how was the burlesque?” Riley asked more carefully.

Steve poked his plate, clearing his throat. His eyes cut to Mona before he started telling them a version of the story that was far less graphic for her sake, like how the fortune teller had simply ‘hurt himself’.

“Do you know if he’s okay?” Sam asked after he finished.

Steve shrugged unhappily. “They said he was fine when I asked. He didn’t need to go to the hospital at least”

“F-fudge” Sam stuttered, catching himself on the swear in front of Mona.

“You can say fuck, Lord knows that ship has sailed” Michelle said tiredly, walking into the kitchen.

“Mama” Mona said happily, reaching her arms up in a grabbing motion.

“Mornin’ baby” Michelle said as she leaned down and picked up her daughter. “Mornin’ all” she waved to the rest of them. Her hair was more frazzled than usual, sticking up in a poof of impressive bed head, her pajamas rumpled like she’d just gotten up.

“Now _you_ look like you had a rough night” Sam observed, making a plate for her as she bounced Mona in her arms.

“Mm, this one tell you what happened?” she asked, indicating Steve.

“A family version” Steve said, nodding to Mona.

“Alright, well in addition to dealing with all _that”_ she emphasized, “I was also up late dealing with the laundry, and you’re welcome” she said pointedly.

“Thank you, but you really didn’t have to” Steve said, feeling sheepish. He’d just about passed out last night after washing the blood off his hands, and he felt bad he’d left it all to her.

“Oh no, I had to” she countered, putting Mona back in her seat and grabbing the plate Sam prepared. “I wasn’t about to let anybody see that mess of a shirt. Looked like the damn Shining, and you know how Sam gets with blood”

“Hold up,” Sam cut in, serious, “your shirt got messed with- I, wait, what d’you mean how I get?” he suddenly said, voice going higher with insult. “I don’t _get_ anything”

“You get touchy” Michelle said around a mouthful of food.

“I get-? I’m a _doctor”_

“And blood makes you touchy”

“It makes me _concerned”_

“I ain’t hearing a difference” she hummed.

Sam made a frustrated noise, opening his mouth to retort, then closing it. He turned to Steve with a look instead. “You’re telling me _everything_ that happened” he said, brokering no argument.

Steve nodded, stuffing more food in his mouth to avoid saying anything else.

“ _Oh-ho-ho_ , you’re gonna talk about more than _that”_ Michelle laughed, though it sounded a little mean.

Steve paused his eating, feeling something off in her tone. Was she upset about something from last night that he didn’t realize?

But before he could ask what was wrong, she reached into her pocket and pulled up a folded piece of paper. He had a second to realize what it was before she had it unfolded and slapped on the table for everyone to see.

“How about you talk to your middle-class white friend about how he wants to _run away with the circus?”_ she sang, a dangerous look in her eye.

“Uh” Sam said, eyebrows rising in surprise.

“I’m not- I’m not running away with-” Steve stuttered, caught off-guard. He’d forgotten he’d stuffed the flier in his pocket, and he hadn’t put much thought into it after all but collapsing into sleep last night.

“But you’re _thinkin’ about it”_ Michelle accused, pointing a fork at him.

“I, it’s not- It’s just something I saw. I don’t even know if I’d want to”

“You’re a graphic designer! You have a _house_. You have a _mortgage”_ she went on, steamrolling over him.

Steve reached out and snatched the flier, folding it and tucking it into his pocket. “I don’t see why it’s a big deal. People backpack to Europe all the time, this is nothing” he said, suddenly feeling defensive.

“It’s running away with the circus. What part of _this”_ Michelle waved her hand up and down at Steve’s body, “says carny to you. You don’t even like karaoke”

“Then it’s a good thing I won’t be doing karaoke” Steve bit out.

Michelle’s lips thinned, but she sat back.

“I’m not judging-”

“Could’a fooled me” Steve muttered, looking down at his plate and stabbing another piece of pancake.

“I’m not _judging_ -” she repeated with more emphasis, “-but you know how this looks, right? You couldn’t even sit through their burlesque, what makes you think you can work there?”

“It’s art, I’d wouldn’t be in the tent”

“Alright, what about when you ain’t working? Gonna live in a trailer? And how long?” she leaned forward, arms crossed. “You got a life here, you got a job. Plus you’re not exactly the outgoin’ type”

Steve pushed his food around his plate, fighting a scowl. He felt unfairly attacked, like she was digging into all his flaws- and right when he’d just woken up, too.

He grit his teeth. “The position’s for an artist, and I’m an artist. I don’t- I’m not _performing_ , I don’t need to be energetic for a crowd. And I lived in a car for two years, I can handle a trailer”

“When the hell did you live-”

“And I’m freelance” he went on, “I can finish my projects on the road”

“You’re still dropping everything!”

“You know I have savings, right? I could go to the Bahamas if I wanted. I’d call it a vacation and you wouldn’t think twice about it”

“But this isn’t a vacation! You’re running away with the circus!”

“I’m not running away!”

“You’d be leaving your whole life if you go!”

“What life!? ‘Cause you made it pretty clear I don’t have one!” he snapped.

He hadn’t realized their voices were raised until those last words, when Mona started crying.

Michelle cursed under her breath before standing and scooping Mona into her arms, hushing her gently. She gave Steve one last indiscernible look before taking her daughter out of the room.

Steve deflated in his seat, the air now thick with the aftermath of the unexpected argument. The only noise was the awkward clink of Riley’s utensils as he resolutely kept his attention on his plate.

“So I’m not gonna say my sister wasn’t outta line, because she was,” Sam said, pausing tentatively.

Steve looked up at him, not in a mood to be handled.

“And you’re an adult, so this is obviously your decision” he added quickly, hands raised, “and I’m just gonna say that, as your friend, I’m here if you wanna talk about it”

Steve made a noncommittal hum in lieu of any response. He looked at his plate of unfinished food, his appetite gone.

He didn’t understand why the thought of him trying something new had Michelle so upset- and why she was acting like he’d made the choice already. He’d honestly only grabbed the flier on a whim, the idea catching his interest. He hadn’t had the chance to even put much thought into it.

“Thanks for the breakfast, and letting me stay the night” he said after another tense moment, getting up and moving his plate to the counter. “And the clothes. I’ll… I’ll drop them off later, but I’m gonna head home if that’s alright” he said dejectedly.

“Yeah man, anytime. Don’t worry about it” Sam nodded, an apologetic look on his face, Riley echoing the sentiment beside him.

The sound of Mona’s crying was growing quieter in the other room, but she wasn’t calmed yet. Michelle would be occupied for a few more minutes at least. Should he wait-?

_She’s still upset._

“Tell Michelle and Mona I said bye” he settled on, not wanting to deal with Michelle’s unwarranted attitude. He’d come by another time after she’d cooled off- when they’d both cooled off- to talk about it.

He slipped out quietly, grabbing his things that had been left on the coffee table in the living room and making a beeline for his car. His house wasn’t particularly far, but it was enough of a drive to give him time to calm down and think.

 _Did_ he want to join the carnival? The way he’d argued with Michelle, defending it like he’d made the choice already…

The more he thought about it, though, the more appealing it sounded. A sudden desire for change, and one not entirely unexpected. It was the whole reason he’d gone the carnival in the first place, hadn’t it? And then later the burlesque.

He _wanted_ a change, something radically different than what he’d ever find locally.

Normally a carnival wouldn’t have _ever_ crossed his mind, the mere thought of it ridiculous with all the attention he would’ve gotten, all those eyes in the crowd-

But then he’d gone to the fortune-telling booth, and it had been quiet. A one-on-one experience, no crowds or performances, just a small, packaged moment. Ignoring what happened afterwards, it had been… really nice.

It was a facet of the carnival he’d never thought of, and he actually found it appealing when translating it to his art. It was a way to get out there- maybe a little extreme- but still controlled. One-on-one art he could share with people.

 _Am I really considering this?_ he wondered.

He pulled into his driveway and shut off the car, but didn’t get out.

He loosened his grip on the steering wheel and sighed, looking out at his house. Now the points Michelle had brought up were coming to mind. It wasn’t like he could actually drop everything, could he?

He _did_ have a mortgage, and other bills he had to pay. He had clients with ongoing commissions, and he had…

He had…?

Oh. Well that was it, wasn’t it?

 _Christ, not much of a life_ , he thought morosely.

There was Sam and Riley of course, and a few other acquaintances he met through them. Garrett and Linda that he sometimes accompanied when their runs aligned. His neighbours. The HOA meetings he attended mostly to oppose whatever inane thing the over-controlling members tried to pull.

It wasn’t much.

Was this an early midlife crisis?

_No…?_

Maybe.

But then the more he thought, the more he wasn’t necessarily seeing anything _bad_ about it. Sure, it would take a little juggling, but it wasn’t like he was throwing everything he’d worked for away, despite what Michelle thought. He’d actually listed a lot of good reasons at breakfast, even if at the time they’d been off the top of his head.

Like he’d said, it was no different than a vacation- albeit with more work involved. He had savings to cover his bills, and his current commissions could be done on the road. Really, he had no other obligations to worry about.

And so what if it was out of character for him? So what if he ended up not liking it? He could come home at anytime. There was very little risk involved for his personal life, he had a pretty decent safety net if it things went bad.

He could _easily_ join the circus.

Oh.

He blinked.

_I can easily join the circus._

He pulled out the flier from his pocket, reading over the duties and needed skills. While a graphic designer by trade, art was his real passion, and he excelled at it.

That wasn’t misplaced confidence either- he had an unmistakable skill for it. There was a _reason_ he was living comfortably in the suburbs as a freelancer.

Portraiture? Piece of cake, he could do that in his sleep. Caricature? He’d done some cartoon work before, he could learn the style with a few YouTube tutorials. Those two alone ought to be enough, but he could pick up on the rest if needed.

The crowds might prove more of an issue- he didn’t exactly have a reputation for his charming personality- but nobody in his life would call him an asshole either. He’d worked customer service before, he knew how to be polite to the public. Besides, it was art- he didn’t need to be as extravagant as a _clown_ for that.

And worst case? They didn’t hire him. Or they’d fire him. Then he’d pack up and come home.

No harm, no foul.

_No strings attached._

_Yeah_ , he thought. He could do this.

He was _going_ to do this.

* * *

“-and says ‘Why not?’. Now I can see she’s all wound up, ready to lay in me, so I say, ‘Because ma’am, that’ll literally _kill you_ ’”

There was a burst of laughter from the group, with even Bucky chuckling along despite having heard this story from Clint already. Almost _everyone_ had heard this story already, but that wasn’t the point of it.

Each of them had at least a dozen stories of crazy customers and guests, and those stories were passed around like cheap cigarettes between the workers during their free time.

Not that there was much free time with their lifestyle. Their days were occupied with work, whether it was entertaining, practicing their acts, or the manual labour of setting up or packing away.

Today was a Monday, which meant is was a packing day. Tents and equipment were being disassembled and loaded into trucks, and it was all-hands on decks.

Except for Bucky, who was ordered to take it easy. He didn’t particularly mind the break, he would’ve enjoyed the chance to kick back and read one of his books, but that was clearly not going to be happening.

Word of his ‘episode’ had spread like wildfire, as it was wont to in their tight-knit group, and so Bucky’s trailer had become the hot spot for anyone who might give even the smallest damn about his well-being.

All day, heads popped in at his door to say hi, ask how he was holding up. Sometimes coming in for a few minutes to chat. The early afternoon had been an exercise of seeing how many people could squeeze into his trailer as they ate their lunch, talking about their day and asking Bucky how his was going.

Bucky gave them tight smiles through it all, saying he was fine, hiding his wrists in his lap despite the long sleeves that were already covering the bandages. If at any point he needed to grab something, be it his own lunch or a glass of water, there was a ceaseless number of volunteers who’d leap to grab it for him.

They were all being so nice to him.

He hated it.

He didn’t know what to do with their smothering kindness, their smiles and jokes that somehow only made the elephant in the room that much more obvious by how they never acknowledged it. He often wished knowledge of his ‘condition’ never got out and he could continue hiding it under the guise of feeling sick and taking the day.

Four years in the carnival had all but snuffed that possibility. He was technically a senior member at this point, and all the others permanent workers were in the know. And they all accepted him despite it.

It made his head spin sometimes, how many people he knew now, and how good of a relationship he had. Real friends, who really cared about him. Too much, right now, but the reality was hard to dispute.

And he knew an amount of them were here because Sharon had asked- had needed someone to keep an eye on him while she dealt with her other duties- but the fact of the matter was she didn’t need _five_ people at once to do it at any given moment.

They were good people- eccentric, but good- and Bucky didn’t have the heart, or energy, to kick them out. Not today, at least.

He could suck it up and accept their company, listening to their stories while ignoring the twitch in his fingers as the cards sat heavy in his pocket, with a voice in his head constantly chanting _read their fortune read their fortune read their fortune-_

He could suck it up for the day.

“But Clint,” Morita said after the laughter had started to die down a little, “don’t you know _the customer’s always right?”_

Clint barked, and that got another round of laughter.

“Jesus, who asks to drink from someone else’s bottle? She didn’t even know you, who knows what you could’ve had?” Dum Dum admonished, though he was still fighting off the last snickers between his words.

“No, but see, she was an _expert”_ Clint said mockingly, “And _everyone_ knows that fire breathers use _alcohol_ , it definitely wasn’t kerosene in my bottle, no sir”

“Should’ve just let her take a swig, see how much of an ‘expert’ she was”

“Oh I wish, but, you know” Clint waved his hand vaguely into he air.

“ _Liability”_ several people said at the same time.

“You guys oughtta be careful, you’ll summon Fury if you say it loud enough” Bucky joked, earning more snickers in the group- until suddenly there was a knock at the door that got everyone exclaiming over each other boisterously.

“Speak of the devil!” Clint laughed, leaning over to open the door.

Of course it wasn’t _actually_ Fury, that would’ve been far too much of a coincidence- instead it was Sharon, and Bucky felt a modicum of relief. Her presence meant he was about to get a break.

“Hey guys, house call time” she said with a smile, waving her med kit.

That was signal for everyone to leave, an unspoken respect for Bucky’s privacy- or maybe it was the elephant in the room, suddenly too acknowledged, and nobody wanted to face it.

They all gave their goodbyes, shuffling out slowly and talking about how they ought to get back to work anyway. Those tents didn’t pack themselves.

“So how was Wade?” Bucky asked as Sharon sat and opened her kit.

“Oh, you know, same as usual. About a hundred holes in his back. Had to disinfect them all individually with a q-tip”

“Ouch”

“Yeah, but he said he got a few hundreds yesterday”

“No kidding?” Bucky said, his brow raised in surprise.

Wade was mostly in knife throwing and the fire acts, but about one day out of the month he was a human pin cushion too, letting people staple bills to his bare skin. As a way of getting money it was a hell of an eye catcher, but still, the thought made Bucky shudder.

“Alright, put ‘em up” Sharon said once she had her supplies ready- her gloves, disinfectant, and a new roll of gauze.

Bucky rolled up his sleeves, laying his hands on the freshly disinfected tabletop.

“Any pain?” she asked as she started to cut away to old bandages.

“Just an ache” he said with a shrug, somewhat lying.

They ached, sure, but it was the heavy kind that ate at him not matter what he did to distract himself. They also itched like hell, a sign of the unnaturally fast healing that they didn’t talk about.

Case in point, when the bandages were off, though the colour was an angry purple-brown from bruising, the skin itself was completely sealed. Not even a scar.

Like he’d never been cut in the first place.

Just like every other time, Sharon didn’t comment. She disinfected the area and reapplied new bandaging, her hands steady but gentle the whole while, and then just as quickly it was over. He rolled his sleeves over the his wrists again, the material of this particular sweater stretched enough to reach his knuckles, and tucked his hands back into his lap.

“Thanks” he said quietly.

Sharon made a humming noise as she put her supplies away, and then sighed, resting her arms on the table between them.

“Seriously Bucky, how are you holding up?”

He shrugged, playing with the ends of his sleeves. “Fine” he said simply. There wasn’t much to say.

She looked at him sadly. “Is there anything I can do? I can tell Maria you need more time, she’ll definitely let you have it. You won’t get in trouble for this, I promise”

“No, no, I’m good” he shook his head. “I’ll be okay to work again on Wednesday like I said”

“But you don’t have to”

“My hands will be fine to shuffle by then, I can cover the rest with makeup. Really, I don’t need the extra time”

Sharon was frowning even more now. “Bucky, I don’t mean more time to _physically_ recover. It’s okay to take some time for mental health. I know you don’t want to talk about it, and I absolutely respect that, but if it’s something like stress, or anything else, we can find something that works for you. Maria and Fury _respect_ you, and they value everything you do here- they’d be more than accommodating, and I’ll back you up no matter what”

Bucky smiled thankfully, even though he actually wanted to scream.

She was so, _so_ wrong about everything that was going on here- and what she was suggesting would make his life so much harder. Between the drunk guy on Saturday and Steve on Sunday, he hadn’t gotten as many readings as usual this weekend, and on top of not doing any readings today, he was already feeling the itch of compulsion.

He’d abstain for another day until it didn’t physically hurt to handle the cards, but any more than that and he’d starts getting twitchy, like an addict in withdrawal. Sharon’s offer, while coming from a place of good intentions, was the complete opposite of what would be good for him.

Part of him wanted to shake her and yell _Stop! Stop trying to help!,_ but instead he just went on humouring her, pretending his issues were in his mind rather than his pocket.

“Seriously, I’m fine. You guys already accommodate enough, and I _want_ to work”

She nodded, accepting his answer despite not being happy about it. He felt a little bad about it, but was relieved she at least respected his wishes.

“Actually, there is _one_ thing you can do, if you don’t mind” he said.

Sharon perked up, listening. “Anything you need” she said, waving her hand like nothing was out of the question.

“I could actually use some quiet time, alone” he said, then titled his head to the door. “You know how everyone is”

And she did. Carny life didn’t attract the quiet type all too often.

He could see a moment of hesitance, and he fought against rolling his eyes. “I’m not gonna hurt myself” he added, letting some of the irritation show in his voice. Could she give him a little credit here?

That seemed enough to curb her wariness. “Yeah, okay. I’ll tell them you’re resting”

“Thank you” he smiled, relieved.

Sharon pulled her kit up against her chest like a school bag, getting up. “Just promise you won’t strain yourself. No heavy lifting, and text me if you need anything. And I’ll bring your supper later if that’s alright with you”

“I will, and thanks, that’d be great” he said, sitting back as he watched her step out.

She was partway down the steps, but caught the door before it closed, looking back in. “You know I’m here for you, for whatever. If you wanna talk or anything”

“I know” he said tiredly. She said it every time.

She gave him one more parting smile, and then the door closed behind her.

He let his head fall back with a sigh, his shoulder falling now that he could finally relax. All day he’d had to put on a smile for his friends, for the people who kept poking their head in and checking on him, and this was the first chance he’d gotten to just _be_.

He took a moment to appreciate it, then groaned and rolled his shoulders, hearing them crack in stiffness. He turned his head to look at their digital clock. He had maybe two or three hours until supper, and then it would be more people coming in and out.

He sighed again, knowing what he needed to do now that he was alone. The sooner the better, while it was still fresh in his mind.

Getting up, he went to the door and locked it as a precaution. He’d need to be careful to unlock it after, otherwise Sharon would go into a panic thinking the worst when she delivered his food.

Then he went to his bunk area and crouched to the cabinet underneath, mindful of his wrists, and started pulling out boxes.

The foremost were open bins that held his regular everyday clothes, the space acting as his dresser. Behind those were his less worn items: stuff one might call business casual, a swimsuit, his winter gear. Things he rarely used anymore, if ever.

Behind those were more personal items, mostly keepsakes and miscellaneous junk he’d gotten during his time at the carnival that didn’t have a use outside of storage.

Then, under all of that, was a metal box.

It was simple and black, and about the size of a book binder. The dimensions were large enough to hold documents without folding them, and deep enough to store a dictionary. Next to the clasp was a small, four-number combination lock.

He entered the code and opened it, the click of the mechanism soft to his ears.

The first thing to greet him was a banking statement for a joint account he was part of, along with the bank card attached by a paper clip. Underneath that were other important documents- things for identification, his scant few records if they ever became important, a copy of his contract with the carnival. A sheet of names and addresses, along with their respective phone numbers. A silver necklace with a dolphin pendant. A single, dirty photograph that he avoided looking at.

And then underneath all that was what he’d been looking for. A leather notebook, old and carved up in scratches, the corners worn and bent.

The cover was a deep red, and in the center was a star, black as midnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a little reference, this is roughly what I've been imagining Clint and Bucky's trailer layout to look like. Replace the fridge with a toilet closet and the oven/stove with a vanity, and there you have it. And then add some more cabinets on the lower parts because long-term trailer living needs that good good storage space.


	7. Six of Wands

Steve liked to think he handled deadlines well. He had a good grasps of his abilities, and his time estimates for a project were rarely off the mark.

Still, a few hours to prepare for a drop-in interview was a tight fit for anybody.

First and foremost he needed to adjust his work portfolio, pulling out most of the minimalist designer brands in favor of his more cartoonish work, and then stuffing in his portrait studies.

Then there was the caricature work, of which he had none.

He loaded up a series of YouTube videos and observed the styles, taking note of the advice, and then started a sketch of his own using random stock photos. It took him a few tries to get the proportions right, exaggerating just enough to make it stylistic without losing the original person’s face. Eventually he was satisfied with three of the final pieces, and he added them with his other samples.

He looked at the clock and cursed. That had taken him a whole four hours of the day.

His next challenge was his outfit. What did someone wear for a _carnival_ interview? He could guess a suit and tie was too much, but he didn’t think full casual was acceptable either. The problem was that those were two opposite ends of the scale, and there was a lot of variety in the middle.

He debated his options while he ate a very late lunch that was really a supper, and then some more as he showered. The question vexed him for another thirty minutes as he stood at his closet in nothing but a towel, cycling through everything on the hangers.

A second opinion would’ve been nice, but he didn’t feel like getting in touch with the Sam-Riley household at the moment.

In the end, he settled on the same outfit he’d worn at their wedding rehearsal; a dark blue button up, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and a pair of dark jeans.

It was getting close to seven by the time he was ready.

He took a breath, standing inside at his front door, his keys in one hand and his portfolio and supplies tucked under the arm of the other. He searched himself for doubt, for second thoughts or fears that this was a bad idea, but found nothing other than nerves and a little performance anxiety.

He could do this.

He was going to do this.

Standing tall and setting his mind, he stepped out into the evening, the sun still shining but getting close to the end of its arch.

He had an interview to get to.

* * *

Steve pulled up to the carnival, a sense of relief at seeing all the trailers still in their place, though that was the only thing he could say had stayed the same since his last visit.

Beyond the little park, the once busy bustle of tents and stalls were gone, as were the ticket booths and signs. Gone were the flashy colours and jingle of music, the din of a crowd yelling and talking over the noise.

In its place was an open field, the grass flattened and sad, and a smattering of trucks parked in a line, the large white boxes sitting heavy with all the packed equipment. Beside those were a mishmash of other cars which he guessed belonged to the employees.

The field was quiet and bare, and he only spotted a handful of workers moving about unhurriedly, some of them casting curious looks in Steve’s direction.

Hesitantly he stepped out of the car, tucking his supplies under his arm as he closed the door.

There was still plenty of sunlight to see by, and the trailer park- while looking like less of a maze than it had last night- was still unfamiliar to him. He had no idea where to find the manager’s trailer again.

He supposed he’d just have to ask around.

He made his way into the little city of trailers, the spaces between like alleyways that opened into small pocket areas holding chairs and tables, almost like a campsite, though all of them were strangely vacant of people.

It wasn’t until he turned a corner that he finally spotted someone, her back turned to him.

“Excuse me” he called, jogging a little to catch up before she disappeared to wherever she was going.

“Hi, sorry, would you mind pointing me towards the manager’s trailer?” he asked.

The woman turned around and froze, eyes going wide. Steve instinctively froze with her, suddenly worried he’d done something wrong.

He tried to backtrack, “I- sorry, I can ask someone else if-”

“Steve?” she asked in disbelief, cutting him off.

His brow furrowed. How did she know his name?

“Steve _Rogers?”_ she asked again, eyes running up and down his body in bewilderment.

“Yes? Have we met?”

She shook off her surprise, seeming to come back to herself. “It’s Sharon. Sharon Carter” she added, and then suddenly it clicked.

“Sharon?” he said in realization, her features suddenly becoming familiar.

“Yeah!” she said, just as stunned as he was, and for a moment the two of them stood like that, gawking at the other.

Steve was dumbfounded, not having expected to see his _cousin_ of all people at a carnival. He hadn’t seen her since they were kids, and he was surprised he hadn’t recognized her face despite the loss of her childish features. They’d seen each other off-and-on during family visits, then spent the better part of a year living under the same roof. He was feeling a little mortified at not recognizing her now.

“Hey. Hi” Sharon said, the first to speak.

“Hey” Steve answered, still reeling.

“You’re- wow, hi. It’s been… wow, sorry, you got big” she said, looking him up and down again.

He also glanced down at himself, as if he’d forgotten what he looked like, and then huffed nervously. “Yeah, hit a growth spurt. Started exercising” he paused, and then added, “You’re looking good too”

Sharon nodded, still coming to grips with their unexpected meeting. Steve didn’t blame her. The last time they’d seen each other…

_Get out of my house, and don’t you ever show your face here again._

“So are you… in the area?” she asked.

“In-? Oh, yeah. I live a few miles away. And you’re…?”

“Yeah, I work here” she said, then lifted the large red bag she was carrying with the words FIRST AID printed on it in thick white letters. “I’m one of the on-site medics. And mermaid”

He nodded, and then remembered the show from the other night.

“Were you the mermaid from last night’s burlesque? With the sailor skit?” he asked.

“Yeah! The Fuckaneers, you saw that?”

“I did, you were really good!” he laughed lightly, feeling a little less tense.

Sharon laughed at that too. “Thanks! I guess you really wouldn’t have recognized me under the makeup and all” she said, waving at her face.

“And it’s been a few years since I last saw you” he added.

“More like a decade. God, I would’ve been what, eleven last time we saw each other?”

“Yeah, sounds about right”

“So… what brings you here? We’re not really open to the public right now” she asked, motioning to their surroundings.

Right, the interview.

“It’s, uh, a kinda funny story. I saw you guys, er, the carnival, was looking for an artist. I thought I’d try for an interview” he said, motioning to the supplies under his arm.

“Oh, you’re still doing art?”

“Yeah, got a degree and everything”

“That’s great! I’m glad you got to follow your passion” she said, congratulating him.

“And it looks like you followed yours” he returned, nodding at her bag. He had vague memories of her talking about wanting to be a doctor for most of a summer break.

She shifted the bag in her grip, shrugging. “Yeah, I got into nursing for a while, then, uh…” she paused, something sad crossing her features briefly before she hid it with a smile, “then I was looking for a change of pace, so here I am”

“That’s good to hear” he said. It really was good to find her enjoying her life.

“But hey, don’t let me keep you” she said, shifting the topic, “You probably want to get to that interview”

As much as he’d like to catch up a little more, she had a point. It was approaching sunset, and as late as it was, he didn’t think arriving after dark to ask for a job would make a good impression. Which _also_ reminded him of why he’d approached Sharon in the first place.

“Actually, about that” Steve said, chagrined, “Would you mind pointing me in the right direction? I don’t really know where I’m going”

Which was how Steve ended up following her through the maze of trailers, passing unfamiliar faces that either watched them curiously or ignored them completely.

To him the trailers all looked identical, and the odd mix of uniformity with the signs of people actively living in them gave the impression of something between a trailer park and sale lot.

She eventually led him to a trailer that was more distinct from the rest. It had been too dark the first time he’d been here, but now, in the fading light of day, he could _tell_ it was the manager’s trailer.

It was far bigger than the rest, the whole thing beige with stripes of maroon instead of off-white, and he could almost _feel_ the authority hiding within, like a dragon lying in wait.

“So this is it” Sharon said, motioning to the trailer.

“Thanks” Steve said, smiling and shifting awkwardly, “I guess I’ll just…”

Did he say goodbye? Part of him wanted to catch up, but the timing wasn’t exactly ideal.

“Oh, yeah” she nodded, looking like she was about to step out of his way and let him get to his interview when she donned a reconsidering look.

“Actually” she said, moving up the steps, “you know what? How about I introduce you?” she said, knocking on the door before he could respond.

Steve couldn’t stop his grimace, knowing he and the manager had already met on bad terms the other night. He’d planned on doing the reintroduction himself, well acquainted with having to smooth over feathers he’d ruffled in the first place, and he wasn’t sure how well Sharon’s attempt would go.

It was too late, however, and she was already opening the door to enter, forcing Steve to follow behind.

“Hello hello” she called cheerfully, and Steve had a moment’s pause when he saw not the woman from last night, but a man in an eyepatch sitting at the opposite desk. He looked up with a baleful glare, his hand going still from the paperwork he’d been working on.

“Sharon” he greeted coolly. “Something I can do for you?” he asked, eye flicking to Steve only briefly, barely giving him a second glance, though Steve had the distinct feeling he was being scrutinized anyway.

“I have someone here who’s interested in the artist’s position” she said, stepping aside to give Steve more of the spotlight.

Steve raised his hand in a half wave. “Hi. I’m Steve. Rogers. Steve Rogers”

The man sat back in his chair, looking at Steve even more critically, sight catching on the portfolio and supplies he held under his arm.

“Oh really?” he said, then looked between Steve and Sharon. “And is he a friend of yours?”

“My cousin, actually”

The only response that got was a brief raise of an eyebrow before the man’s face returned to the inscrutable mask it was. “Your cousin” he repeated, sounding unimpressed.

“Yeah, I- well, I haven’t seen him for a while, we just bumped into each other, but we grew up together!” she said.

The was a moment- so fast he almost missed it- where she made an expression Steve didn’t quite catch, and the man returned a subtler one of his own. He looked back to Steve, tilting his head in consideration, before nodding to the chair on the other side of his desk.

“Well take a seat, Mr. Rogers”

There was the sense that something had been communicated between the two, and Steve suspected Sharon just had put in a good word for him.

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Steve took the seat.

“Thank you, sir”

“Mm, we’ll see. Call me Fury” he said, his pen picked back up and continuing its scribbling on the document. “And you can go” he added, dismissing Sharon without a glance.

Sharon didn’t seem bothered by Fury’s bluntness, instead giving Steve an encouraging smile as she waved and let herself out.

“So you’re interested in our artist’s position” Fury said, less of a question and more a statement of fact.

“Yes, I am. I have a Bachelor’s in graphic design with a minor in art” he said, shifting into his professional voice as he pulled out his resume and handed it over. Fury moved the document he was working on to the right, pulling Steve’s resume to the left, and continued on as if he were reading both in an impressive feat of multitasking.

“I’ve been working as a freelance graphic designer for the past six years with a focus on logos, infographics, technical illustrations-”

He continued to rattle off his qualifications, going over his history and education in art. A lot of it was on the technical side, but he was no slouch in free creativity either. Before he’d made his living on it, he’d been a prolific hobbyist- it was how he’d developed his skill before even starting his degree.

After giving his art experience, he touched on some customer service he’d done in his youth, front line stuff where he interacted with the public, peppering in the usual buzzwords.

Steve would pause between the skills he listed, waiting for Fury to ask any questions, but he only made acknowledging hums, and so Steve carried on, growing more and more worried as the man across from him didn’t engage at all, unimpressed by what he was hearing.

Steve didn’t let it trip him up though. After essentially giving an extended version of his resume, he pulled up his portfolio and flipped it open, laying it down for Fury to see.

Now, finally, it looked like he was at least paying attention as he looked up from the papers and started to flip through Steve’s work. He scanned everything with a critical eye, pausing on certain works and skipping over others. He spent an especially long time looking over Steve’s portraits and caricatures, but… Steve wasn’t worried on that front.

He wasn’t worried because there, _right t_ _here_ was the spark of interest. His work spoke better than any of his words ever could. He supposed that someone looking for an artist wanted their qualifications shown and not described.

Fury finished flipping through the portfolio, closing it without preamble and sliding it back to Steve, actually looking at him like he was more than a nuisance.

“Alright. You’ve got potential. Let’s see the rest of it” he said, indicating the art supplies Steve had brought with him, well aware the job listing had said _in-person demonstration_ on it.

He pulled up the large sketching pad, flipping open to a blank page.

“What kind of style do you want?” he asked, pulling out a small case that held a small mix of pencils and markers.

“All of them”

“All of them?”

He raised a brow. “Is that a problem?”

“No sir” Steve answered, gripping the pencil with purpose.

“Good” Fury said, then reached into one of the drawers in his desk, pulling out a handheld stopwatch and clicking it on. “Because your time starts now”

Steve had a second to take that in before he was immediately turning to the blank sheet, outlining the starts of a face. He needed the build the structure first, get the bones of the shape before he filled in the detail, then softened it with shading. He figured he’d start with his strength: realism.

While he worked, Fury went back to his documents, the duet of their respective scribbling filling the trailer. Steve pushed himself to work fast- but not too fast. There was quick and there was rushed, and quality could only take so much of a hit.

He got the structure done in short time, and the filling features came together like puzzle pieces. The strength of his brow, the width of his nose, the pattern of his trimmed facial hair. The eye-patch was an easy temptation to fall into, and if he’d been working off a picture, that’s what Steve would’ve put the focus on.

But sitting across from the actual subject, he got the sense of what was _truly_ the focal point of this man: his mouth.

There were creases there- many were frown lines, anyone could point that out- but some were from smiles too. Hidden smiles maybe, if his gruff attitude carried over in most of his life. Steve could read a face, but not _that_ well.

In any case, those smile lines were what needed to be seen, not the eyepatch. In those lines were the real personality.

Steve didn’t know how long he took when he finished, but he still had more to go. He tore the portrait out and placed it on the desk, moving on to the next work. There was a faint click as Fury marked his time on the watch, the counter still climbing for his next piece.

The caricature.

Steve switched to markers and began the bold strokes he’d learned only hours ago. While he did, he spotted Fury inspecting his work over the edge of the paper, but he didn’t let himself lose focus over it. He’d get Fury’s judgment after he finished.

The caricature was a stark contrast from his usual work. While he tried to make his portraits about the real person, a caricature was the complete opposite. It was all surface with no substance- an exaggeration of the obvious. While political cartoons might use it maliciously, the aim here was a light comedy. You had to laugh _with_ the subject, not at them.

Before, where he’d made the eyepatch no more focal than an eyebrow or a mole, he now did the opposite. This character _was_ the eyepatch, with a suck-on-a-lemon scowl that spoke of authority. The top of the head was made larger to accommodate the huge black fabric, along with the nose and brow to stay cartoonishly proportional. The eyes were shrunk down, the chin extended, the neck turned into a stick. He did all this while maintaining the recognizable features.

The finishing touches were done with coloured pastels, laying on flat colours with simple highlights and shadows.

When he finished, he tore the page out, laying it on the desk next to his previous work. The click of the stopwatch marked its completion, though Fury still held the piece like he wasn’t finished.

His eye raked over the caricature momentarily, but then he was looking back at Steve.

“Draw a butterfly”

“What?” Steve asked, caught off guard.

“Draw. A butterfly” he said, enunciating slowly as if Steve were dense, and then clicked the watch to start the timer again.

“Uh, okay” Steve stammered, spurred more by the watch than the words as he pulled out his coloured pencils.

 _A butterfly? What?_ he wondered. He was being tested, could suss out that much, but on what? Colours?

He bit his lip, trying to decide on the palette he needed as he planned a design. Real-life studies played through his mind, trying to recall common patterns- the long petal shapes like stained glass, the symmetrical spots, the zebra-veined stripes. He was blanking on everything but the Monarch butterfly, but that was straight oranges, he’d need a design with more variety-

His pencil was just about to hit the paper, the start of an outline at the tip of his fingers, when he stopped.

He wanted to smack himself in the head.

A butterfly. A _butterfly_. Jesus, maybe he _was_ dense.

Who asked to have a butterfly drawn?

Kids asked for butterflies. On their face.

Fury wanted a _face paint_ design, and he’d almost done realism.

He reassessed, discarding the pencils in favour of markers, dropping his nine colour choice down to four. He didn’t know much about face paint, but he knew simplicity was key. It was all flat lines and colour and fantastical designs.

Drawing on a flat paper with marker wasn’t going to be the same as actually doing it on skin with paint, but he wasn’t exactly going to question his interviewer’s request- or challenge, it felt more like.

He let his hand flow loosely as he made large swooping curves, adding twirling vines instead of rigid petals, filling in the colour on a gradient the best he could with markers. He let his creativity flow, the lack of structure giving him total freedom in design.

When he finished, he was left with a pair of blue-pink wings in a purple outline, with some decorative dots for flair, and an abstract line that ended in twirling antennae for the body.

It was by no means a masterpiece, but in his opinion it had all the makings to delight a child and impress the average non-artist.

Would it be enough to impress Fury, though?

The final click of the stopwatch marked his last piece, leaving Fury with the three samples of his work to judge him on. He put the timepiece away, laying all three works side-by-side to compare.

Steve waited in silence as the man across from him scoured his lines and shading. He noticed Fury’s gaze kept falling to his own real-life portrait with a look of subtle admiration, and Steve felt a stab of pride. If nothing else, that one had at least been a good job.

Fury must have come to some sort of decision, because he suddenly collected all three works into a pile and tucked them away into a drawer- Steve guessed he wasn’t getting those pieces back- and then leaned forward, arms on the desk with his hands together.

“Your portraits are good, caricature could use refinement but it’s good enough to be paid for. You’re time’s slower than I like but not enough to put off customers. I’m assuming you’re a quick learner ‘cause everyone’s a goddamn quick learner around here, so I’ll let the butterfly slide, but I expect better in a month”

Steve was taken aback by the blunt assessment. Had he-? Was this a job offer?

“We’ll work out a schedule and how much you’ll charge later. You’ll have say of course, but I know what guests like to pay and they won’t take being charged like you’re a Picasso. End of the day you hand in whatever you earn into a communal pot- sixty-percent goes into upkeep, forty gets split between everyone else, you don’t complain if you get less than you made”

Steve nodded, listening attentively.

“We provide room, board, and transportation; if you don’t like it you can leave or pay for your own accommodations”

Fury paused. Then, somehow, he looked even more serious- gravely so.

“We don’t care about your background, that’s your business, _b_ _ut_ , we don’t tolerate troublemakers- that means no violence, theft, or any kind of assault to the guests, staff, or equipment”

He stood then, looking over Steve menacingly, “And _especially_ none of that shit towards kids. You hurt _one_ kid-” he held up a finger, “and you’re not just out; you’re blacklisted. I know every damn carnival and circus on the eastern half of the country, and ain’t a single one’s gonna take you after that” he warned, pure threat in his hard voice.

“Is that understood?” he asked when Steve didn’t answer right away, caught in a stunned silence.

“Oh, uh, yes. Yes sir” Steve said, swallowing at the intensity of the gaze upon him. He had a stray thought of how the man really lived up to his name.

“Good” he nodded, sitting back down. He pulled yet another drawer open and took out a small bundle of sheets, handing them over.

“There’s the contract, it has all the details of what I just said, should answer any questions you have. Read it over, sign it, bring it back. We’re leaving tomorrow at eight sharp, if you miss us you can find us here” he said, taking his pen and scribbling an address on a sticky note that he then pasted onto the contract. “You’ll be on a six month probation, after that you’ll be considered for a permanent position if you want, but we can leave you on contract if you prefer”

Steve nodded, taking the offered papers. “Thank you sir” he said, unable to hold back his smile.

_I got the job!_

A sense of joy filled him, the rush of success and the thrill of something new. Here was his first leap into the unknown.

His life had been mostly safe choices since he’d last gone into the world on his own, albeit unwillingly at the time, but it was all the more refreshing now that he was _choosing_ to do it. And the comfort of his safety net- his home, his savings- pushed away any fears.

“Is there anything else you need?” Fury asked impatiently, glaring at Steve with a raised eyebrow.

With a start, he realized he’d been sitting in Fury’s office ogling the contract, and felt heat in his cheeks at the blunder.

“No, uh, sorry. Just, thank you, for the opportunity” he said, getting up from his seat.

Fury only hummed, going back to his paperwork now that his business with Steve was done. The dismissal would’ve come across as rude from anyone else, but somehow Fury made it seem impersonal in a way that left no hard feelings.

 _You’re not unimportant, but I have a thousand and one other things to deal with so don’t expect any courtesy,_ his attitude seemed to say.

Steve gathered his things and let himself out, a lightness to his step.

Outside it had gotten dark, but he was met again by Sharon, who was leaning on the wall of the closest trailer with a flashlight in hand. She pushed off when she saw him, her smile growing when she saw the expression on Steve’s face.

“Did you get it?”

He held up the contract in answer, grinning. “Sure did”

Sharon let out a little enthusiastic _ah!_ , bouncing on her heels. “That’s great! When do you think you’ll start?”

Steve tucked the contract into his portfolio, considering. He _could_ start tomorrow, show up and leave with the rest of the caravan- but Michelle’s words still stuck with him like grime under his shoes, and he figured he ought to take her more valid points to heart and spend a few days sorting his business before leaving.

“Fury gave me the address of your next town, I’ll probably drive down there later this week” he said.

Sharon nodded. “Alright. Don’t wait too long though, we’re pretty strict on the schedule, Tuesday’s we move on to the next place”

“I’ll be sure to make it on time” he assured, then had another thought. “And hey, you wouldn’t have any tips for… joining, I guess? I’ve never actually worked at a carnival”

“Yeah!” Sharon said, agreeing easily. “If you’re okay sticking around, we can grab a bite and I can tell you about it. It’s been a while, I want to hear what you’ve been up to”

He’d be an idiot not to take up that offer. Not just for her advice, but for the chance to reconnect too.

“Sure, that sounds good” he agreed. “I know a good burger place nearby if that’s alright- my treat”

“Oh, well now you’re getting the _good_ advice” she joked, moving off to lead him out of the trailer park.

He chuckled as he followed behind, feeling happier than he had all day.


	8. Ten of Pentacles

Bucky glared down at the design of the book, the red-black colours an inverse of the cards he carried, the center star a blatant reference to them. It was a perverse design that he hated, and yet he could never get around to binding the contents into a new book. He kept telling himself he’d do it one day, but he never did.

Maybe he wanted it this way. It gave him a reason not to pull it out too often- which was ironic, given how studiously he’d read the contents, not to mention how much effort he’d put into keeping it safe all these years.

He sat hunched on the floor, the mess of his items strewn about, his safe open with its contents bared to the world, ignoring all of it for the book.

He looked at the clock briefly to make sure he had plenty of time, and then he was opening the front, reading the short inscription inside.

> ~~_Property of Arnim Zola  
> _ ~~ ~~_If found return to 2768 W 8th Street,  
> _ ~~ ~~_Brooklyn, NY  
> _ ~~ ~~_718-555-7311_ ~~

And then underneath:

> _Property of J. B. Barnes.  
> _ _If found ~~go fuck yourself~~_  
>  _Return to the care of the Hill-Fury Carnivàle  
>  215-555-0104  
> _ _contact@hillfurycarnivale.com_

There was nothing else in the cover, no indication of what the pages held. Only the scratched out name of a dead man, the address of an empty building, and an old phone number that was out of service.

Underneath was his own inscription, his earlier messages written at a bitter time in his life, now scribbled out and replaced with what was hopefully his permanent address, transient as it was.

He’d read the pages front to back, word after awful word. A part of him knew there wasn’t anything in it that would help, but still, he had to look again. The thought kept nagging him, the fear of _what if I missed something?_

And even if he hadn’t, there was an obligation he had to fulfill.

So he started flipping through, skimming the entries.

The first thirty pages were from another journal, the sheets ripped out and pasted into this one. The paper was old and the handwriting long and looping. It was in a language he suspected was Italian.

Underneath each entry was a translation taped on with cue cards, written in English with a neat print that made Bucky’s work that much easier. The translator wasn’t credited, but it wasn’t Zola’s based on the handwriting.

The first entry was listed on November 14th, 1844.

> _I am accursed in such a fowl manner by these damned tarocchi. I am shunned from my family and those I name friends. The Priest has declared me anathema, even his blessings do nothing- of what of my prayers?_
> 
> _I carry evil everywhere I am to go, the Beast sates itself only with portent._
> 
> _News of my curse will spread, and I surely will be hunted. I must leave for where I will not be known. I have heard Pescara is agreeable, and it is beyond the Stato Pontificio._
> 
> _My Blessed Sister has gifted me enough scudo to keep me comfortable yet, but I fear it will not last me my journey. By the Lord’s Grace, I pray I will survive._
> 
> _Ambrogio Baldacci_

It struck Bucky every time he read this entry, how far back the cards went. Ambrogio would mention later the person who had the cards before him, cursing them out for burdening him with the tarot, but he failed to detail anything more than that- like _how_ he’d acquired them.

Did the last person create these things and loosed them onto the world? Or had they been another prisoner, like all the rest?

Bucky had resigned himself to never knowing.

He skimmed over the next dozen entries, snapshots of this man’s life as he fled through Italy, chased out of every town as a witch. He eventually found shelter traveling with some Romani people facing similar persecutions, making his way northward into Europe.

While his life had many uncomfortable parallels to Bucky’s, he didn’t detail anything that Bucky didn’t already know, and he moved on to the next prisoner.

No date on this entry other than the year. Another translation underneath, though he had no idea which language this one was in.

> _1862_
> 
> _I did not believe him when he thrust this journal in my hands. Upon first reading I believed it to be a record of lunacy. I entertained the thought of burning these pages if only to spare him the mockery of a fool that which he would surely receive in death._
> 
> _Yet the cards have proven all his pronouncements to be true. I am frightened._

No name was given. This mystery owner had three more entries that were similarly terse before ending.

He kept going.

The third, Polydore Lussiér didn’t last more than a year, dying on the street. Bucky only knew this because the fourth prisoner, Hervé Lussiér, had written it, citing the third owner as having been his brother.

He didn’t have many flattering things to say in his writing, given how Polydore had asked to speak to him in his dying moments, only to pass the cards to his brother with his last breath. The brother would then die six months later, also on the streets. He couldn’t hold a job with the cards, and disease took him fast, just like his brother.

These entries hadn’t been very encouraging when Bucky first read them.

The fifth was a man named Csongor Deák, who fared better and lived a decade with the cards. His writing was also not in English, though he’d learn the language later after successfully immigrating to America and changing his name to Connor Deacon.

The sixth lived through a whole forty years, though Bucky had gone a long while not knowing that.

Her entries were all in English, which ironically meant he had the most difficulty reading them. There was no neatly printed translation provided, and her handwriting had been near impossible to read at first. It was all cursive, the letters tight and the vowels only vague shapes, and it gave teenage Bucky a headache just to look at.

In the early years he’s simply skipped over them. It was only later, when his days were bleak and held no other escape that he’d spend his time attempting to make sense of it.

And once he had, well. He’d re-read them, over and over, because he’d inadvertently stumbled upon a gold-mine.

> _June 27th, 1920_
> 
> _My dearest Eustace brought me flowers again. He says they have meaning such like my cards. The daisy speak of how truly he loves me, and the pansies for how much I am in his thoughts, always. He spoke of regret that he could not afford the amaranth for how his love for me will live eternal._
> 
> _We kissed behind the wolfman’s cage at dusk. I feel my heart will burst._
> 
> _Bernadette Greene_

Bucky had come across hope.

Hers were the only entries with anything good in them. It showed a life, one that was difficult and painful like the others, but with small pockets of joy. She had friends, and someone who loved her, even if he would later break her heart.

It was _her_ entries that had given him even a modicum of brightness in his dark life, and it was her experience that convinced him to take the risk and join the carnival- because after all, it’s exactly what she’d done.

She’d come from a rich life- or maybe middle class, he wouldn’t know- but he recognized that she’d been comfortable. Then all that had been ruined by the cards, and she’d been on the path to dying in destitution like so many of the others.

Her saviour had been a traveling freak show, which had accepted her curse at face value, seeing her as the potential money maker she was. It turned her life around, giving her the best forty years a prisoner of the cards could hope for.

To this day, he was thankful for those little bright moments that had gotten him here.

As such, he had most of her writing memorized by now. Though he wouldn’t mind going back through some positive nostalgia, his private time was limited, and he skipped to the last entry.

> _October 9th, 1942_
> 
> _The strings have dug deep today, I am barely able to write. A murderer was in my presence again, but it was not a set path. I pray for his victim that they may live._
> 
> _I will have to cancel our planned evening with Alice, she must make do going to the Burgundy Room without me._

Bernadette’s last entry was just like any of her others, and then abruptly stopped. He never learned what happened to her as whoever got the cards next never wrote a single thing- or maybe the notes had gotten lost.

In any case, the seventh prisoner was a discrepancy in the record, a blanks space between 1942 and 1978. For all he knew, there could’ve been more than one person in that time- or none at all. The cards could’ve been sitting in a dusty box, her death too abrupt to pass them on.

Then the entries were picked up again in 1979 by the eighth prisoner.

Arnim Zola.

Zola never wrote of how he got the cards or the journal, referring to it only as _‘the incident of my binding’_. He’d managed a respectable fifteen years of life, doing what Bucky couldn’t and raking in the big bills from Wall Street vultures while living out of his private fortune telling studio.

Near as Bucky could tell, the guy must have been some kind of scientist when he got the cards, because all he ever did was try to study them, omitting any kind of personal details that weren’t relevant. The factual nature of his entries made him seem like a cold, unfeeling man.

Bucky skipped ahead and read a random passage, if only for the sake of justifying that he ‘checked’ every section.

> _July 8th, 1984_
> 
> _Conclusion of Static vs Diverse Frequency Study_
> 
> _In my study of correlation between the frequency of conducting a reading with one subject compared to reading a variety of subjects in a similar time, I have concluded that variety results in a greater satiation._
> 
> _When performing a reading for a single individual at a rate of ten unique questions in a one hour period, the compulsion to perform another reading was noted to have returned after six hours._
> 
> _Comparatively, when the same questions were asked by a unique individual for each- totaling ten unique questions by ten unique individuals- in a one hour period, the compulsion to perform another reading was noted to have returned after ten hours._
> 
> _In conclusion, ensuring more variety in subjects will allow for greater relief during off-hours._
> 
> _Note that this study does not reflect on the effects of long-term frequency of readings from regular subjects._
> 
> _Arnim Zola_

Zola’s entries were all clear and concise like that, without room for alternate interpretations. There’d be no mention of what Bucky was looking for in any of them, so he didn’t bother to read more.

While these notes were the most helpful technical information ever written about the cards, Bucky couldn’t stomach to look at the writing for long. It only ever reminded him of the man behind the words, his beady eyes and chipped nails haunting the back of his mind.

Bucky never got to know the guy very well, their only interaction lasting all of ten minutes, but his hatred for Zola was strong, even after all these years. It ran deep, instilled early and galvanized over time and hardship, remembering the weaselly little man who’d ruined his life-

_Don’t._

-but that was an avenue best left alone. His life wouldn’t get any better stewing on old resentments for a man who was long dead.

Instead, he skipped past Zola’s section and into his own. The writing was sloppy at first, but it slowly grew neater as the years went on and Bucky actually put effort into recording his experiences.

He was about three-quarters into the journal before he landed on his last entry, dated a few months ago. He tried to keep up with regular updates of his life, even if nothing exciting was happening. Just little snippets to show he was managing, providing a future reference to whoever it was that might read it next.

Of course, if something major occurred, good or bad, he tried to include those too, aiming to follow in Bernadette’s example- and obviously something major had occurred last night.

_The Prisoner does not ask questions._

It was a well known fact. Every prisoner had tried it, all with the same results. The cards didn’t read the prisoner. Not ever.

_You will be confined to your fate. You will be bound to your death._

So what changed?

He pulled out a pen, starting a new line. He had to write slow, a fine tremor in his hands as his wrists complained from the effort.

> _Something crazy happened last night. The cards read me! They read the Prisoner! My wrists are shot to shit, but I have to write it all down before I forget anything… _

He carefully detailed last night’s events, including the mention of having met Steve on Saturday and the drunk he’d read later that same night, in case either of those details proved relevant. There was no way to tell which parts had been important factors to the reading.

Twice he had to stop, swearing as he felt his heartbeat in his wrists, the muscles burning from the tension. By the time he finished they were aching worse than before, shaking so badly he’d needed both hands to hold the pen.

Sharon was going to lay into him if she noticed later.

He read over his writing to double-check, and then nodded to himself, satisfied with the entry. He closed the book and put it back in the box, covering it with his less important documents and sealing it away again. Then he went through the much harder task of putting everything back in the cabinet in roughly the same order it had come out, his wrists sending jabs of pain despite his attempt to go slowly.

_I should learn to use my feet_ , he jokingly thought at one point, thinking of Clint and his gross monkey-foot habits that would’ve been useful in this particular moment. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to push through the pain, and it wouldn’t be the last. All he could really be thankful for was that it was never permanent.

As he packed, he went over everything again in his mind. Having written it all down, he was no closer to an answer than before. He’d been hoping to stumble upon some kind of discovery, using the old records to leverage a revelation- find enough clues to connect the dots.

But no. All he’d done was drag up the past, for better or for worse. He was no closer to an answer than he was before reading.

_Maybe the next_ _prisoner_ _will find it helpful,_ he thought glumly, shutting the cabinet door.


	9. Six of Cups

Steve woke up the next day feeling… he wanted to say _lighter_. His room had a thick air to it, like it was blanketed in quiet- like his house was getting ready for a hibernation.

He was probably projecting, but still. It was a comfortable feeling. A calming feeling.

He started his day leisurely, with an easy breakfast of eggs while the news played on low, his laptop in front of him as he pulled up his professional website, logging on as an administrator.

He went about creating a message at the top of the page informing visitors he would not be accepting any commissions at this time. He set up an automatic message in his email that he was ‘out of the office’ and his responses would be delayed.

Then he double-checked that all his bill payments were set to automatically take from his chequing account.

And he was essentially done.

Online banking was a wonder of convenience.

He set down his mug and drummed his fingers on the table, frowning. This was all too easy.

If he wanted, he could spend a few hours packing and then hit the road. Was that weird? Didn’t it take people longer than this to pack up their lives? Did it say something about him that he could up and leave in a day without notice?

His fingers kept drumming on the table.

Maybe this new experience would be good for him. Get out there and into the world. His thoughts went back to last night’s supper with Sharon, and the conversation they’d had.

“ _Road life isn’t as pretty as it sounds” she said, snagging another fry from their shared plate. “You’re new too, so it’s going to be extra sucky”_

“ _In what way?”_

“ _So permanent workers get their own trailers- they double up. The ones with animal performers get their own solo, but they share with those same animals too. The temporary workers, on the other hand, get the bunks. Like, there’s gonna be five of you in there like sardines”_

_Steve nodded. He could do cramped spaces. Shared spaces though? He’d have to see._

“ _And there’s no toilet in there either” she said pointedly. “You’re gonna be using the Porta Potty about ninety percent of the time. We’ve got a shower trailer, it’s got three showers in it for employee use, but good luck getting hot water”_

“ _Jesus, you live like that too?”_

“ _Haha! No” she said, laughing and shaking her head. “My trailer’s got a toilet; most permanent worker’s do. And whenever we stop, a few of us pool our money and get a hotel room together- or motel room, whatever’s close- and we share the shower. We trade off who gets to sleep in the bed too”_

“ _Fancy” Steve drawled._

“ _Say that again when you’re on your tenth cold shower”_

_Steve laughed. He didn’t doubt he’d be joining in on the practice. Hell, he could just get himself a room every time they stopped, bypass the trailer life altogether- but that would eat into his savings pretty fast, even for him._

“ _What about food?” he asked._

“ _Oh my god, the food! Don’t even get me_ started _on the food” she started. “It’s like school lunch. Every. Day. We have a goddamn chicken nugget day” she said, rolling her eyes._

“ _Is it bad?”_

_She shrugged. “Eh, it’s… fine. They keep it on rotation so it’s not the same every day, and they have a fruit and veggie section so you don’t get scurvy, but this,” she said, motioning to the food between them, “this is like fine dining to me now. Your standards are going to get low, let me tell you”_

He smiled at the memory, tasting the eggs still on his tongue and consciously appreciating them.

Sharon had been incredibly helpful, giving him tips on what to pack, what to expect, and what to avoid doing to get on people’s bad side.

He’d felt a stab of shame, then, at not telling her about the incident. She probably knew James, especially as one of the medics. She might have even patched him up after last night, yet he couldn’t bring himself to tell her.

And there was the main point of his worry. It was going to come up, he had no doubt of that. One half of the co-owners didn’t like him already, and a number of the workers who’d escorted him out hadn’t been welcoming either.

None of that even counted on James. At best they guy would be scared of him, and that was an awful feeling.

Still, a part of Steve wanted to make it right- and he wanted to make it right on his own. He could’ve told Sharon then, explained his side of things, gotten her to understand that his actions had good intentions, and ultimately, good impact.

And then maybe she’d have a talk with the others, explain what happened and smooth the way over for him. It would save him a lot of trouble and what was almost guaranteed to be a rough start.

He needed to do it himself, though. Sharon had already gone above and beyond with introducing him to Fury- she might have been the entire reason he’d gotten the job in the first place- and he wasn’t about to abuse her kindness to fix the mess he’d made.

He’d only just reconnected with her too, and he didn’t think their tenuous relationship was at that point yet. He didn’t want to put any strain on it, and for all he knew, she could lose out on her own connections if he had her stick her neck out for him.

So no, he didn’t tell her about the incident with James, regardless of whatever consequences that would bring.

For now though, he needed to find something to fill his week before leaving, otherwise it was going to feel like he was puttering around for nothing.

Obviously there was work. He was close enough to the end of one commission that he could finish it in the coming days if he worked a little overtime, leaving him with his remaining three commissions to do on the road.

It would also give him time to consider what to do with his house. There were utilities that he could either keep paying or turn off while he was gone- but then, the real question was if he wanted to keep the house available or not?

Renting out on Airbnb had been an idea he’d vaguely floated in his mind, as was going the route of a short-term lease. He wouldn’t be there if an issue came up, but he had no doubt Sam and Riley would be more than happy to take on the responsibility if he cut them in on whatever income that brought in.

But was the extra income even worth it? Did he really want strangers staying in his house? And what if the carnival fell through and he needed to suddenly come home? Would he be stuck on Sam’s couch for a month waiting for his own house to be available?

It was a lot of options that he wasn’t sure about, and taking the week to think it over was the wisest choice at the moment.

He sighed. As much as he wanted to just _go_ , he wasn’t stupid enough to actually follow that particular spontaneity. Joining the carnival in the first place was plenty spontaneous enough.

And speaking of responsible choices…

He turned to the small pile of stapled sheets off to the side- the job contract Fury had handed him, signature lines still blank.

He’d read through the it last night, but it had been late by the time he’d dropped Sharon off at the carnival, and he’d been on the way to dozing by the time he’d started skimming the words.

He was awake and sharper now though, and he gave the terms a proper read-through.

As near as he could tell, it was all pretty standard. As a freelance worker himself, he was no stranger to reading his own contracts, and he’d learned to navigate them decently enough.

There wasn’t anything in it that Fury hadn’t already mentioned, albeit with more detail and legal language.

There was no set duration, and he could leave- or be let go- at any time. The carnival couldn’t fire him for discriminatory reasons, but seeing as one of the acceptable reasons to be dropped was _unsatisfactory performance_ , they were all but free to do as they pleased.

What it came down to was a trade-off. Complete freedom to go in exchange for a lack of job security- but as Sharon had described, half their labour force was paid hitchhikers, so that seemed more of the norm.

The pay system was definitely an interesting one, too; a kind of strange, communal tip jar. There was something familial about it though, like they were all working together to keep each other afloat.

Steve’s own duties were listed on the final pages. It was somewhat vague, describing him as an _artist entertainer_ , and his duties were only a set of hours he was supposed to be entertaining guest in addition to _as needed_ services for the carnival.

That was fine though- it was meant to be vague. At least there was a reasonable minimum and maximum hours per week.

The biggest caveat was the supplies. While they outlined they’d buy refills, he’d need to supply the initial materials himself. He supposed that was fair- it would be a decent loss if they paid for all those supplies only for the artist to leave.

Really, everything about the contract looked above-board. I little flimsy maybe, but what did he expect for temporary work? For _carnival_ work, no less.

The buzz of his phone sounded, and he put the contract down to look at the new text.

> **Sam  
> ** Hey, you doing okay?

Steve winced at the text. He should’ve messaged Sam yesterday to let him know everything was fine.

> **Me  
> ** Yeah, all good. Sorry for the silence, I needed some time
> 
> **Sam  
> ** No worries man. Wanted to check in. You had a rough night and didn’t deserve to be yelled at about the job
> 
> **Sam  
> ** I talked with Mish about that btw
> 
> **Me  
> ** Yeah?
> 
> **Sam  
> ** Yeah. She wants to apologize and have an adult conversation, the whole nine
> 
> **Me  
> ** I could come by this afternoon? Maybe around 3? I can drop off the clothes I borrowed too
> 
> **Sam  
> ** Sounds good
> 
> **Me  
> ** See you then

He closed the screen, putting the phone down and worrying his lip. At this point he’d settled on his decision, and he didn’t know how Michelle would take the news. Part of him just wanted to swing by, drop the clothes on Sam’s steps, and then run away; avoiding the whole deal.

But Sam had said she wanted to speak like adults, and while she’d been the one acting childish, he’d be no better if he didn’t bother listening to what she had to say.

So he spent the rest of the day on his commission piece, ignoring the itch to immediately pack. When that didn’t pan out, he caved with the compromise of only digging out the bags without filling them just yet.

Which was how he discovered the only bags he owned were his reusable grocery sacks, his messenger bag, and an old backpack.

When had that happened? He used to own three suitcases, used to _live_ out of those tattered things, and now-?

_Spring donations._

He sat back, remembering. His life had been going so well, so _boring_ , that he’d donated or trashed most of his old things from his rougher days.

He rubbed a hand over his face. _Dammit._

While he stood by that decision, it still hit home the fact that he didn’t own _anything_ for travel. Not even some shitty camping gear.

_Why didn’t I notice?_

He huffed. Well. Something to add to his list of things to do this week.

With that thought, he grabbed Sam’s clothes from the wash and carried it with him to the car, reluctantly driving to his friend’s house.

When he arrived, he hesitated before knocking on the door, hearing the telltale sounds of someone coming to answer, the door swinging open.

“Hey Sam” he greeted, holding up the clothes like a weak offering.

Sam took the clothes, stepping back to let Steve in. “Hey, ‘bout time you showed up” he joked.

Steve smiled sheepishly. They both knew he’d dragged his feet coming here.

They went to the living room, the house ominously quiet.

Steve crossed his arms, shifting on his feet. “So Michelle wanted to talk?”

“Yeah, but,” Sam sat on the couch, inviting Steve to do the same, “I got some things to say first”

He sat in the adjacent armchair, sitting forward attentively.

“So Michelle was outta line, I’m not excusing that, but she has some reasons. And not gonna lie, I’m also concerned about this sudden wanderlust you got, but we can talk about that later”

Steve nodded. He was surprised Sam hadn’t said anything about it sooner- this was the sort of thing he would’ve gotten on his case about if Michelle hadn’t beaten him to it.

Sam rubbed his hands together, taking a moment to continue. “So Michelle has some hangups about… people leaving” he said, giving Steve a hard look that this was a serious topic. “She’s technically my cousin, but we grew up together when my parents took her in. And I’m sure you’ve noticed how we never talk about Mona’s father. So you can see where she might be a little touchy on you up and leaving for a circus”

That was… yeah. He could connect the dots- absent parents, absent partner. People abandoning you. It didn’t make it right, but it gave some context for Michelle’s outburst.

“So, you know. Don’t take it too personal” Sam finished. “And don’t tell her I told you any of that, ‘cause she’ll kick my ass, then _your_ ass, then my ass again” he added.

Steve didn’t doubt that.

“Yeah, that’s. I get that. Thank you” Steve said earnestly. While it was questionable if Sam was entitled to share what he had just now, the extra context did help Steve piece together some of Michelle’s point of view.

“Don’t mention it” Sam said, then put a hand on Steve shoulder without smiling, “Seriously, never mention this talk. To _anyone”_

Before Steve could answer, there was the clatter as the front door opened, the voices of Michelle and Riley drifting in.

“-have avocado flavour but not chocolate? It’s one of two staples! Like I ain’t bashing avocado, but for real? You ain’t gonna have chocolate ice cream in your ice cream- oh” Michelle stopped short mid-ramble when she entered the living room and spotted him and Sam in their seats.

Steve waved awkwardly. “Hey”

“Hey” she said tensely, eyeing Sam accusingly.

“Nuh-uh, don’t give me that. I _told you_ he was coming” was Sam’s only response as he got up to greet Riley, who was herding an ice cream-carrying Mona into the house.

Michelle’s mouth twisted, crossing her arms the best she could while holding her own ice cream cup.

Sam met Riley with a quick kiss and a quiet exchange of words before looking down to Mona.

“Hey lil’ lemur, how about we go out back and finish that ice cream on the swing bench?”

“Mm-hmm” Mona replied happily, the spoon in her mouth wobbling as she nodded.

Riley waved awkwardly to Steve on his way out, finding himself on the receiving end of being herded. Steve had a brief feeling of sympathy for the man, who was caught in the drama like a leaf in the wind. If only Steve were so lucky.

Michelle cleared her throat once they’d left, the two of them alone now.

“So, I’m sorry about yesterday” Steve started.

Michelle, who looked like she’d been ready to get defensive, let out a breath instead, her posture deflating into something tired. She uncrossed her arms as she reluctantly sat where Sam had been, looking down at her cup rather than at Steve.

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong” she admitted morosely.

“Well, I shouldn’t have yelled”

“ _I_ shouldn’t have yelled” she waved away. “I shouldn’t’ve even started that whole mess”

A pauses. “And I’m sorry that I did”

Steve smiled weakly. “It’s okay”

They sat in silence for a long moment after that, the tension far from gone. Steve drummed his fingers as she picked at her dessert.

“… do you wanna talk about it?” he ventured to asked.

She sighed again, stabbing at her melting ice cream. “No”

Another stab, another sigh. “Yeah. I guess” she amended.

Steve waited for her to start.

“I have… hangups. They’re my own problem, but your whole… _thing_ , got me touchy about it”

Steve nodded attentively. This was something difficult for her to talk about, and he wasn’t going to interrupt.

She huffed and put her cup down, bracing herself. “Just, I got issues with people leaving, and that ain’t on you, and I shouldn’t have put it on you” she said, looking him in the eye. “And normally I’m better about it, but, it’s. I’m just-” she made a frustrated noise and leaned forward, putting her head in her hands.

“Fuck, just, my lease is ending in two weeks, and my fuckin’ landlord won’t fuckin’ renew it, and prices are all goin’ up and I my job doesn’t pay enough! And now I have to move here with Sammy ‘cause otherwise me an’ Mona will be homeless, and my apartment came furnished so I don’t even own any of our furniture and we’ll lose it all when we get kicked out and now I’m just dumping all this on you too! Fuck!”

She huffed again, going quiet, her head still in her hands.

Steve was taken aback. That was… more than he’d expected. A lot more. He took a second to process what she’d just said, and then felt a deeper stab of sympathy.

“What if you moved into my place?” he blurted.

Michelle looked up at him like he was crazy. “What?”

The thought had sprung up without much consideration, but now that he’d said it, he wasn’t necessarily regretting it. “Yeah. I’m gonna be gone for a while- I got the job at the carnival by the way- and my house is just gonna sit empty. I was thinking Sam would check up on it, but I’d be more than happy if you wanted to use it”

This was actually perfect- he’d have someone watching over the house, and Michelle and Mona didn’t have to squeeze into a single guest room.

While he didn’t know how long he’d be gone, he had a rough hope to last a few months at least- six even, maybe more- and if he came back early, well, he’d have an easier time working it out with Michelle than if he lent the place out to a stranger.

“Steve, I- no. _No._ This was just venting, none of this is on you” she said dismissively. “Look, I’m stressed, I took it out on you yesterday and that wasn’t okay, and I’m sorry for that- end of story. I still think what you’re doing is _stupid_ , but it’s your life and I ain’t stoppin’ you” she said, then added “And I ain’t takin’ your _house”_

“No, but it’s perfect” Steve insisted. “It’ll be empty whether you take it or not- and I’d rather you take it”

“But I can’t afford-”

“I’m not asking you to pay anything. Just, I don’t know, keep it in order. Dust the shelves once in a while. Bring in the mail. If it all works out I’ll be gone for a few months, you can at least use that time to stay comfortable”

Michelle eyed him with a suspicious look. “Are you doin’ alright? You won’t even go to restaurants and now you’re joining the circus and giving away your house? Do you need to see a doctor or something?”

Steve huffed. It was admittedly a little out of character, but also…

“It just, it feels right” he tried. “I don’t know how to explain it, but I- I feel this _pull_ to get out into the world. And, yeah, it’s sudden and it’s wild for me, but I feel so much, I dunno, _lighter_. Like I’ve been sitting at a window and the curtains have only just been opened for the first time, and now I wanna go outside and smell the fresh air”

“… So, like, a midlife crisis?”

“Maybe? I’m not even in my thirty’s though, don’t know if it counts”

“Hey, we don’t know when we’re gonna die. This could be midlife for you” she grinned, looking happy for the first time since he saw her today.

Steve gave her an unimpressed look. “Thanks”

There was a beat, and then they were both laughing. Like a pin had been pulled, all the tension drained out of the room.

“Lord, what’ll I tell my friends at home? I’m living in a clown’s house now?” she chuckled, laughter slowly dying down.

“ _Artist’s_ house. I’m doing _art”_ he corrected with a grin.

“You’re leaving a stable house and job for circus life, I’ma call you a clown”

Steve scoffed and waved her off playfully, accepting the concession. He didn’t mind people thinking his choice was stupid- in a lot of ways, it _was_ \- but all he was asking was that they respect it.

“I heard laughing through the window and I’m assuming we’re all good here” Sam said as he peeked his head in.

“Yeah yeah, we worked it out” Michelle said with an eye roll, patting Steve’s leg as she stood. “Hallelujah, Saint Samuel brings peace into the house once more, and now I can go eat ice cream with my daughter”

Sam only stuck his tongue at her as she passed, then turned back to Steve. “So you guys good?”

Steve nodded with an easy smile. “Yeah, we’re good”

“Great. Now get your ass out here, the artisanal vegan ice cream Riley got you is melting”

Steve’s eyebrows rose even as he pushed out of the seat. “Vegan ice cream? What’s that even made of?”

Sam shrugged. “Whatever’s in vegan milk. Soy or something. Almonds maybe. I got a stash of Ben and Jerry’s here so I wouldn’t know”

“Isn’t Riley allergic to both of those?”

“He filled his cup with fruit toppings. Says it’s the cheapest fruit cup in the tri-state”

Steve shook his head, laughing under his breath as he followed Sam outside to enjoy the rest of the day with his friends.

* * *

“Left, _left”_ Steve called as he balanced one end of a mattress, slowly walking backwards into what was once his studio space.

“I _am_ going left!” Riley called back from beyond the door where he held the other end.

“ _My_ left”

“Well say that next time!”

“You brought the frame in with me! It’s the exact same thing!”

They finally got it in, rotating and setting it onto the bed frame, huffing as they did. Steve took a step back to admire the mostly finished room now that the mattress had been placed while Riley caught his breath, the other man far more winded.

Sam and Riley had been kind enough to lend the furniture from their guest room, which consisted of all the basics plus an extra-large double bed. It wasn’t much when split between two people, but now that Michelle was taking Steve’s room, it was more than enough for Mona.

He’d spent the week preparing as planned. A few late nights had gotten his one commission complete and finalized, his payments were automated, and his belongings were either packed or stowed away to make room for his house’s new occupants.

He’d also spent a good share of the week at Sam’s house in a bid to spend as much time as he could with his friends before leaving. They’d sat together for suppers and lunches when they could, with evenings spent watching movies while Steve practiced his caricature and face painting.

Mona turned out to be a huge help as a volunteer for the later, alternating between allowing Steve to practice what the internet said was common requests and letting her decide what he did- the spontaneity of her suggestions challenging him in a good way.

The adults even got in on it, letting Mona choose their faces, which almost led to hysterics when the little girl boldly proclaimed that _Uncle Sam is a fairy!_ when asked what his design should be. Michelle had nearly ruined her kitty face paint as she held back tears of laughter, biting her lip with barely restrained snorts, and Riley had to look away with a hand over his mouth as he fought his own giggles. Sam, to his credit, managed to mostly keep his expression still as Steve painted his face with a colourful design of vines and highlights that one might call enchanting, the both of them grinning.

But now it was late Monday afternoon, and they’d spent most of the day setting up Mona’s room. Michelle had already been given the run-down of the house, told the important details like when was garbage day and such. She had his number if anything came up, though Sam and Riley were likely going to be the first choice of contact for any real issues.

They’d so far only moved in the items they already had packed for Sam’s. Steve had offered to help them move the rest of their items from her apartment, but that had been shot down immediately.

“ _Hey, for all I know you’re gonna come back in two weeks and then we gotta pack everything back up”_

_Steve furrowed his brow. “You know I wouldn’t just kick you out like that-”_

_She held up a hand. “If you’re still convinced to stick with your circus life after two weeks, then I’ll bring my stuff, but until then we’re gonna live light” she said, leaving no room for argument._

Thinking it over, he realized it was a fair precaution. She would effectively be homeless in a week, and while Steve would _never_ send them away with nowhere to go- even if they did have Sam’s house to fall back on- she was right to be careful.

She had to look out for her daughter, and while he didn’t appreciate her lack of faith in his commitment to see his carnival position through, he could respect the caution behind it, and so he’d dropped his offer to move all her belonging in before he left.

“Alright, I got the sheets and stuff, should be everything” Sam said as he entered the room, arms topped with the pillows and bedspread.

“Thank you, my dearest husband, for carrying in the sheets and nothing else” Riley said from where he sat bent over on the bed, breath still coming a little short.

Sam grinned and wiggled his fingers from under the pile he carried. “Gotta keep my doctor’s hands safe” he shamelessly teased.

Steve frowned, looking over the furniture again. “I could’ve carried it all myself if it was too much” he said, worried he’d overworked his friend. He’d only needed a second person to leverage the other half of the furniture, but if it had come down to it, he could’ve managed. It was no worse than when he’d moved his exercise equipment yesterday- hell, his weight set was heavier than anything in the room.

“Mister Humble-Brag, everybody” Riley said sarcastically with a flourishing wave, and Steve had the decency to look abashed.

The three of them got the sheets on with ease, and then they were exiting to the living room where Michelle was playing with Mona to keep her occupied and out of the way of the furniture moving.

“Is that the last of it?” she asked.

“Should be” Steve said, pausing near the couch. He took another look around the main living space, now more open and bare without some of his personal items or equipment- not that he’d moved much. He didn’t think Michelle would purposely destroy or steal anything, but Mona was still a toddler and accidents would happen. As such, he’d done a cursory child-proofing of moving anything easily breakable into storage.

“You heading out then?”

“Yeah” Steve said. His car was packed and the tank was topped off, ready for the journey.

“Sure you don’t wanna stick around for supper?” Sam asked.

He shook his head. “Nah, I’m just gonna grab a burger on the road. I wanna get there before it’s too late so they can get me set up”

“Can’t you leave tomorrow morning then? It’s been a busy day already”

“They leave on Tuesdays, and I wasn’t told the next town they’re hitting. It’s gotta be today”

And sure, Steve could’ve probably found their next location if he missed them, that was the convenience of the internet, but it wouldn’t make for a good starting impression. He _said_ he’d be there this week, and he was going to stick by that.

Sam sighed quietly, understanding but unhappy. They’d had their own private conversation of what Sam thought of his decision, and like Michelle he also thought it was very stupid, but was respecting it nonetheless.

“Well then don’t let us keep you” Riley said, coming up and opening his arms for a goodbye hug that Steve gladly returned.

“We’re gonna miss you” he said as he thumped Steve on the back, and then he was stepping back for Sam’s turn to hug.

“Don’t do anythin’ stupid”

“I kinda already am” he said, and they both laughed.

Then it was Michelle’s turn- or, Michelle and Mona’s turn- as she picked up her daughter to give him a combined hug from them both.

“Bye-bye Ste’e” Mona said.

“Bye-bye Mona” he said back, smiling at her attempt at his name.

“Check in with us, okay? Even just a text every once in a while so we know you’re alive” she whispered as she squeezed him tight, Mona’s hands echoing hers around his neck.

He squeezed her back. “I will” he promised, and then added with more levity, “And don’t burn my house down”

She snorted. “Oh, is that all? Low bar you’re settin’ there”

“Eh, you’ll handle it” he shrugged as they let go, then considered. “But if there’s anything, there’s a fire extinguisher in the kitchen and garage. And I had the smoke alarms batteries replaced in January-”

“Yes! A great goodbye, we’re all teary-eyed, gonna miss you, now out the door with you” Michelle said drolly, shooing him to the door as the others laughed, Steve included.

“Okay, okay!” he laughed, walking to the door, hands up in mock surrender. The others followed behind him, stopping as the driveway as he got into his car.

He rolled the window down, leaning out. “Really guys, thank you. I know this isn’t… well, you know. But thanks for being here for it” he said earnestly.

“Always man”- “For sure” Sam and Riley said, standing with their shoulder’s brushing.

He looked to Michelle, who was giving him a strained smile from where she stood with Mona still in her arms, the little girl watching the interaction curiously.

The two of them weren’t especially close- he’d only met her a handful of times at backyard barbecues at Sam’s before this week- but he felt a growing friendship was developing. Obviously she wasn’t a fan of his life choices in this moment, but there was an effort being made, and that was enough.

“It’s already been said, but you look like you need it repeated, so: don’t do anything stupid, y’hear?” she said after a moment, her smile turning wry.

Steve huffed. “Okay” he replied, putting in the key to start the car.

He left the window down as he reversed out of the driveway, waving one last time as the others did the same. His eyes drifted to his house, giving it a final departing look, though he didn’t feel any kind of apprehension or loss. The house was just a house, a place with some items and a handful of valuables kept safe within. He was only partially surprised to realize how little attachment he felt to it now that he was leaving.

And it was exactly that feeling that spurred him on to pull down the street, GPS telling him where to go, not looking back.

He had a new experience to get to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The point of this chapter was to show that Steve is a rational human being, but there were a dozen points where I just wanted to pick him up and throw him out of the house and yell "Git! Leave! Get yourself to that carnival or so help me" ( •̀_•́)ง
> 
> Anyway, suffice to say this chapter was a challenge to write, but he's out there now and that's what matters.


	10. Knight of Swords

“ _What?”_

“Yep” Bucky nodded, grinning as he took a sip from his energy drink.

“A _lemon?!”_

“A whole lemon. Just pulled it out of his pocket”

“He paid you with a _lemon”_ Sharon reiterated, not quite believing it.

“I have it in my trailer if you wanna see”

Sharon sputtered, all the while Clint was wheezing.

“ _Why did you accept a lemon?”_ Clint got out in a thin voice, struggling to talk as he laughed, his half-eaten fries pushed aside.

Bucky shrugged. “I mean, when life-

“ _No_ , nope, you stop right there. You don’t finish that sentence” Sharon shushed at him, jabbing him in the arm with her finger. Bucky chuckled and took another sip, but obligingly left the sentence hanging.

It was true that he’d taken the lemon as payment; in part because it had caught him off-guard, and also because of the sheer absurdity of it. The fact that he also couldn’t say no didn’t need to be mentioned.

It was the highlight of this weekend’s work, which was a relief. He’d gotten nothing worse than the usual jerk types: a few non-believers with something to prove and the odd asshole who didn’t like the answer the cards gave. Otherwise it had all been smooth sailing and happy customers.

It was a welcome respite after last week’s ordeal, and it allowed his wrists to heal fully without issue.

“Well don’t go telling Fury, ‘cause he’ll have some words” Clint said once he had his laughter somewhat under control.

“What did he even ask you?” Sharon asked, ignoring Clint.

“Ugh, he asked about his love life” he said, waving his hand in the air irritably. “Just like, _‘Will I find my true love?’_. Not even interesting”

“Wow, what a real lemon” Clint snickered, to which neither Bucky nor Sharon acknowledged.

“But anyway, that’s how my weekend went” Bucky finished, draining the last of his drink.

“Not so bad, then” Sharon said, and Bucky hummed in agreement. Not so bad.

“Yeah, this town’s decent” Clint agreed, going back to finish his food. “Nobody tried to sell me drugs even once”

They were seated at the mess area, a series of small tables and plastic chairs set up food-court style in an open area amongst the trailers. It was a Monday evening and the tear-down had been finished, leaving the crew exhausted. Most had gone to eat their meals in their trailers, where they’d either pass out for the evening or go out later for drinks.

It left Mondays quiet; a sort of hush after the fanfare of the carnival crowds.

“So my cousin’s gonna be here soon” Sharon said after a moment, wiggling in her seat excitedly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, he texted before he left”

“And this is the artist cousin?” Clint asked

“Yup. He’s got a degree and everything”

“Fancy” Clint said sarcastically, biting into a fry.

“Hey, be nice to him” she warned.

“You said you haven’t seen him since you were five-”

“Ten”

“-and just got in touch last week. You barely know him” Clint said, dubious about the whole thing.

“We’ve been texting, and I know enough” she said. “I know he’s an orphan, and he was kicked out on the streets when he was fifteen”

"Boo-hoo. There's ten of those here" he dismissed.

“Clint, be _nice”_

Clint raised his hands. “Okay, okay, I won’t bite his head off first thing. But I reserve the right to make judgments”

“Good” she nodded, then turned to Bucky, “And _you”_

Bucky raised his hands defensively, mimicking Clint. “I’ll be nice” he promised preemptively.

“What? No, of course you’ll be nice, you’re always nice-”

_Debatable,_ Bucky thought.

“-but you need to not hide from him”

Clint snorted at that, but he went on to shove more fries in his mouth rather than comment.

Bucky scrunched his face, grimacing. “I won’t- I don’t _hide_ from people” he grumbled. He wasn’t _that_ antisocial…anymore.

“Just don’t avoid us when he eats lunch with us”

“Okay, one” he held up a finger, “I’m not _fourteen_ , and two” he held up a second finger, “I’m not that bad”

“You’re that bad” Clint immediately countered.

“I’m _not”_

“You did that exact thing with Scott when he first joined”

“He covers himself in _ants”_

“Buddy, that’s not the worst thing people cover themselves in here, and that’s the lamest excuse” Clint drawled.

Bucky made an irritated noise, unable to retort.

“Just don’t avoid him” Sharon said.

“ _I won’t-”_ he paused, dropped his voice to a lower volume, “I won’t avoid him” he said calmly.

“Good, because I really think you’re gonna like him” she said, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively, and Bucky groaned, putting his face in his hands.

“Sharon” he growled.

“No really, you’ll like him!”

“ _Sharon”_

“He’s super nice!”

“Do _not_ set me up with your cousin”

“You’d look so cute together, he’s exactly your type”

“My ty-? What do you know about my type?” he sputtered, “I don’t have a type- there’s no _type”_

“You absolutely have a type”

“How would you even know? You’ve never seen me date anyone”

Sharon only gave him a smug, knowing look. “Oh, I’ve seen you looking”

Bucky pursed his lips. “I don’t _look”_

Clint laughed. “You kiddin’? Might as well walk around with binoculars with how you scope ‘em out”

“I don’t look” Bucky huffed again. He didn’t _look._

_Except you kinda do_ , a little voice said. It sounded suspiciously like his own.

“In any case, he checks all your boxes”

“Okay, okay. Theoretically, _if_ I had a type, what so-called boxes does he check?” Bucky said, conceding only a little.

“Oh, I think I’ll leave that as a surprise. I wanna see your face when you see him”

“Awful” he said, pointing at her. “You’re awful”

“I’m the best” she preened.

“The worst”

The rest of the meal continued in a similar vein of bickering, but it was all in good fun. Part if it did make him more curious about the new addition to their group, though.

This cousin would be riding in on Sharon’s invite, and while she sounded confident he’d be staying with them for a while, Bucky had his doubt.

Nine out of ten people left the carnival within a month, most after their first weekend. It wasn’t a lavish lifestyle by any means, and it wasn’t as romantic as some would think either. It was work, and it was cramped, and you didn’t have access to flushing toilets most of the time. The only real comfortable positions took time and dedication to earn, by which point most would have quit before reaching.

But Sharon had her hopes, and he wasn’t going to be the one to squash them. He’d just have to wait and see if this guy lived up to all the hype.

* * *

Steve pulled up to the carnival later than he’d have liked. The two hour drive to the large, unfamiliar town in Connecticut hadn’t been too bad, though long-range driving wasn’t familiar to Steve and he’d hit a few snags. Really it was the GPS that had saved him from arriving past midnight.

He finally pulled up closer to eight at night, finding a familiar sight of a flattened field with a collection of trucks and trailers parked in a little city of its own.

He parked next to a row of other cars and got out, opting to leave his belongings for now.

He felt a pair of eyes on him as he closed the car door, and scanned the dark until he spotted a man under the awning of a trailer at the outskirts, drinking a beer and watching the cars. Steve waved unsurely to him, and got a wave in return.

“Hi, I, um. I’m looking for Fury?”

The man eyed him for a moment, then pointed to the left. “Go’n down there straight and you’ll hit his trailer”

“Thanks” Steve smiled, leaving in the direction he’d been pointed in. He felt the eyes continue to track him until he was out of sight.

He had to pull out his phone’s flashlight, the light from the shuttered windows not enough to see the various cords of wires running along the ground. The place looked the same as last time he’d been amongst the boxy trailers, the path equally maze-like despite the clear direction he’d been given.

True to the guy’s word, he did end up at the same imposing trailer as before, the unique beige and maroon colouring an easy identifier.

The trailer was quiet, but the lights were on, so he stood and the bottom of the steps and knocked.

There was the sound of movement and a blurred silhouette passing by one of the windows before the door opened to reveal the woman he’d talked to after the… _incident._ Maria Hill.

She looked down at him in surprise, eyes wide until her features morphed into something more cautious but put-together.

“Mr. Rogers, what brings you back to our carnival?” she asked coolly.

_Ah._ So he’d made enough of an impression that she remembered his name.

He put on what he hoped was a modest, apologetic smile. “Hi. I’m here about a job?”

“We’re not hiring at this time” she said without hesitation.

He pulled out the signed contract from his pocket, holding it out. “I, uh, was already hired” he said awkwardly, the papers in his hand disproving her words.

She snatched the contract out of his hand and unfolded it, skimming briefly before giving him a scrutinizing look, her lips pursed in displeasure.

“Wait here” she said, closing the door in his face.

He shuffled back a few steps, crossing his arms to wait. As he stood there, the sounds of other people started to drift from beyond the blocks of trailers now that he was paying attention.

A door slammed off to his left; an errant laugh in an unknown direction, blown away of the breeze. The ghost of life in the otherwise quiet park, with the steady hum of a some kind of machinery and the sound of cars from the nearby freeway acting as background noise.

None of it was quite able to drown out the heated voices that suddenly sprung to life in the trailer in front of him, however, and he caught snippets of an argument he probably wasn’t supposed to hear.

“ _-tell me he was the artist- how was I supposed to know? -not have that kind of- said it wasn’t an issue- not the point- he a problem?- technically-”_

And then in a much clearer voice, Steve heard “Is. He. A _p_ _roblem?_ ”, each word spoken as a demand.

The trailer went quiet after that, and Steve shifted on his feet. More time passed, and each second had him more and more convinced he was about to be sent home.

He stopped shifting and stood up straight when he saw a shadow pass across the window again, and the door opened to reveal Fury this time.

“It seems you failed to mention your _run-in_ with one of my workers during our interview” he said, a hint of accusation in his voice. He hadn’t even gone for a greeting, just jumping right into business as he eyed Steve from the top of the steps.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “I, uh. I didn’t think it would be relevant. To the position”

It was a weak excuse, but there was no getting around the fact that he probably wouldn’t have gotten the offer at all if he’d brought it up.

“Uh-huh. And I’m assuming Sharon wasn’t aware of your involvement either?”

Steve nodded, shame heating his neck. Fury stared at him with one inscrutable eye, then sighed, coming down the steps.

“Well you’re here now, and my employee said you didn’t do anything wrong which is good enough for me. Any problems gets dealt with between yourselves, I don’t wanna hear nothin’ about it unless one of you breaks the harassment terms, am I understood?” he said gruffly, walking to the end of the trailer.

Steve stared after him dumbly. He’d been expecting a curt farewell and directions back to his car, not… well, the job.

Fury paused at the corner of the trailer, looking back in annoyance. “Are you coming or not? I don’t have all night”

“Oh, right. Sorry” Steve stammered, kicking himself into motion.

They made their way through the jungle of trailers, Fury expertly navigating between the alleyways, cutting between tightly parked RV’s and identical campers. Steve started to notice the sound of machinery slowly getting louder, until they were standing at a collection of trailers near the edge of the park.

“You’ll be bunking here for now” Fury said in a raised voice to be heard over the noise. “There’s two free bunks in there, work it out with the others”

Steve nodded, listening as he took in the small box of a trailer.

“The carnival’s not responsible for your personal property, if you can’t prove who stole or broke it you’re on your own”

Fury went up to the trailer and knocked on the door. He waited a moment and then entered, motioning for Steve to follow behind.

Inside was roughly what he’d expected a trailer to look like. There was a small table and cushioned seating, a counter space with some small kitchenware items, and then two pairs of bunk beds at the back.

There were two men sitting at the table playing a game of cards, a small assortment of empty beer bottles littering the space between them amongst the pile of cheap poker chips they each had. They both put their cards down and turned to the two visitors.

The noise from outside was muffled enough that Fury could speak at normal volume again.

“We got a new hire, get him set up” he ordered at the two, then turned to Steve. “You picked a hell of a time to come; we’re leaving tomorrow, eight a.m. sharp. Find me in the evening to work out your schedule, and _do not_ -” he pointed a menacing finger at Steve, “bother me before four”

And with that he left, leaving Steve alone with the two strangers.

“Hey, I’m Steve” he introduced after a moment’s pause.

The first man leaned over reached out a hand that Steve took, shaking it automatically.

“I’m John” the guy said, giving Steve a welcoming smile, then motioned to the other man, “and this is Enrique”

“Daniel” the other man corrected, and not kindly either. “My name is Daniel” he reiterated, and reached a cautious hand to Steve, who shook it as well.

“Nice to meet you” Steve said, unsure of the dynamic.

“Welcome to Chateau Crap” John said with a wide flourish of his arms, emphasizing the small space. “We have great amenities such as: microwave, kettle, a sink with no warm water, and a mini fridge big enough to hold fuck all”

His cheery tone had an underlying bitterness to it, and Steve didn’t know how to respond beyond awkwardly nodding along.

Daniel huffed, unimpressed with his companion’s description. “You can take the top left bunk; we were using it for storage so just move the stuff to the floor, we’ll shove it somewhere else” He pointed to one of the cabinets above the counter. “One of those is empty, you can put your food in there. Rules are you don’t take anything from anyone else’s shelf; we don’t do communal. You got a lot of stuff?”

“Not much that needs to come here, I’ve got most of it in my car, I can leave it there”

John whistled. “Lucky fuck”

Steve ignored him, looking over the bunk he’d been allotted, frowning. The bare mattress was covered in various travel bags, while the remaining three were furnished with thin blankets and pillows. “Fury said there were two bunks? I could just take the third empty one”

John shook his head. “Nah, that’s Frank’s. Fury probably meant this” he slapped the table surface. “The whole thing folds into a bed; but we got a gentleman’s agreement to keep it a table, you know?”

“Ah, alright” Steve agreed. “Hey, what’s that noise out there” he then asked, curious about the machinery that could still be heard.

“Generators. They go out at one in the morning. One of the benefits of living in the shits” John grinned.

“Right” Steve said. Sharon had mentioned he’d likely be placed in the worst lodging to start with. The better accommodations were reserved for long-term workers.

“Hey, you play poker?” Daniel asked, changing topic. “We can deal you in after you move your stuff”

“Maybe later if you’re still playing. I’ve actually got a friend to meet first” Steve said, appreciating the offer.

“Alright man. We’ll be here”

Steve stepped back out, stopping at the end of the steps and grimacing. He had no memory of which end he and Fury had come in from. How did the people here navigate through these things?

He pulled out his phone and opened the chat with Sharon, letting her know he’d arrived. Her responses came quickly and consecutively.

> Sharon  
> !!!!!!!!!
> 
> Sharon  
> :D :D :D
> 
> Sharon  
> Where are you!

He looked around for some kind of landmark, but it was plain trailers all around.

> Me  
> Near the generators? It’s loud. I’m right at the end of the rows
> 
> Sharon  
> Oof
> 
> Sharon  
> Okay, I’ll come to you

He put his phone away, standing idly as he waited, not daring to risk venturing out to meet her halfway. He’d save exploring for when it was light out.

A few minutes later he saw a light approach with a palpable aura of excitement attached to it, and then Sharon was upon his with a hug.

“You’re here!” she shouted over the noise.

“I’m here” he agreed, returning the hug.

“Come on” she said, tugging his arm to follow. She led him deeper into the park, the generators growing quieter until they were a distant drone, which let her talk more easily as they walked.

“I have some friends I want you to meet. I think you’re really gonna like them!”

“Yeah?” he asked, unsure of the prospect. Part of him felt like it was an imposition. Would they even like him? What if they only put up with him for Sharon’s benefit? The last thing he wanted to be was a third wheel.

“Oh yeah. They’re really nice- er, okay, they can be assholes, but like in a good way, you know? One of them has an independent booth like you’ll have, so he can give you some tips too” she went on, leading him to another trailer. This one was bigger than the one he’d been assigned.

Sharon went up the steps and opened the door, walking in without knocking.

“Guess who I brought” she called playfully, though Steve didn’t fully catch the muffled answer from inside.

“Guys, meet my cousin Steve. Steve, this is Clint and Bucky” she introduced as he stepped in behind her, putting on a shy smile as he prepared to greet-

_Soft eyes._

Steve froze like a deer in the headlights, a sinking feeling in his chest as he locked gazes with the man sitting at the table; the same man he’d seen bleeding out, yelling _get away from me!_ in fear.

Staring back at him, equally shocked, was James.


	11. The Tower

_At your will, the Prisoner will be bound for life._

“Get out” Bucky said, his voice weak to his own ears.

He didn’t hear if anyone said anything. All he could focus on was _Steve_.

_Steve_ , who he thought he’d never see again.

_Steve_ , whose future was so turbulent it had broken Bucky’s skin.

_Steve_ , whose actions would ruin Bucky’s life in some unfathomable way.

“Get _OUT!”_ he said louder, hands shaking as he pushed himself deeper into the booth, his breath hitching on the onset of a panic.

He didn’t- he didn’t know what happened after that, what was happening around him. There were more voices and shuffling and something slammed, but he couldn’t parse it beyond the black spots in his vision, suffocating him, tightening around his chest and his throat and his _wrists_ , and he was gasping-

-cold- _cold-COLD!_

“ _Ack!”_ Bucky shouted, flinching away from the sudden bite of cold at the back of his neck.

He turned sharply to see Clint at his side, his arm retreating with a can of Bucky’s own energy drinks in his hand. There was a fine mist of condensation growing on it, the can still freshly out of their little fridge.

“What the hell?” he asked, glaring at Clint and rubbing the back of his neck.

Clint wore a worried expression, shifting back in the seat to put more space between them. “Sorry man, but you were having a panic attack. I think”

“Yeah, no shit I was having a panic attack” Bucky snapped, turning away. He was still shaky, and his heart felt like it was going to run right out of his chest. His eyes were squeezed shut as he pressed his forehead against the wall of the trailer.

“Can I… _do_ anything?” Clint asked uncertainly. “Sharon said cold on your neck helps? Do you want me to-?”

“Just give me the can” Bucky said tightly, holding a hand out. A moment later he felt the cool metal in his hand. He pressed it against the back of his neck- _slowly_ this time- and let out a shuddering breath.

He sat like that, waiting for his heart to calm down, the cold abating the worst of his panic.

His panic over Steve.

Who wasn’t here anymore.

He put the drink down, looking up at his empty trailer where only he and Clint occupied.

“Where’d they go?”

“Sharon took her cousin out after you, you know, yelled at them to get out. And then sorta kept saying it over and over until I did that cold thing”

Bucky groaned. Goddamn it.

“You wanna talk about?”

“No, no, it’s stupid” he tried to dismiss. “He just reminded me of a thing and I wasn’t expecting it is all. It’s fine”

“He reminded you of a _thing?”_

Bucky waved him off. “Just. You know. He was there last week”

Clint’s brow furrowed. “Last week-?” he muttered, and then his eyebrows shot up in understanding. “Oh, _oh_. Last week, with the uh, the thing” he said, making a vague motion to his own wrists before quickly _not_ doing that.

“Yeah, that thing” Bucky confirmed, turning back to rest his head on the wall again. He was growing tired, crashing after his panic like he always did.

“Wait” Clint said, and Bucky didn’t care for the revelatory tone in his voice.

“Was he the guy who grabbed you?”

“Nobody grabbed me!” Bucky snapped without thinking, which was the wrong thing to say.

“I can get the guys and have him out of here-”

“ _Don’t_ , I don’t need- he didn’t _do_ anything” Bucky tried to back-peddle.

“You don’t have to be involved, he won’t even know it was you-”

“ _He’s gonna know”_ Bucky hissed.

Clint put his hands out in placation, “Hey, okay, we don’t have to do anything about him now, okay? We can be subtle, keep him away from you and get the bosses to let him go-”

_No, no no no_. If they did anything to Steve he might get upset and _retaliate_ , and who’d be his number one target?

Bucky reached out and grabbed Clint by the shoulder. “Clint, look at me” he instructed, looking Clint dead in the eyes. “I cut myself. _Me_. I had an episode and cut myself, and he happened to be there. He carried me to get me help, and _that’s all._ Don’t do anything to him. Just _don’t”_

They held each other’s gaze for a long moment, Bucky channeling as much honesty as he could until Clint nodded slowly.

“Alright, my bad, man” he said, accepting Bucky’s point. “You just freaked real bad when you saw him”

Bucky let go, sagging into his seat. _Fuck_.

“Like I said- just wasn’t expecting him is all” he said tiredly.

“Mm-hm” Clint hummed, nodding. “So should I go out there and bring him back, or…?”

_At your will, the Prisoner will be bound for life._

“ _No!”_ Bucky said quickly, jolted by the prospect. He couldn’t- he wasn’t ready- just, _no_ …

He fingered the cards in his pocket. Now wasn’t a good time.

“Okay” Clint agreed easily, pulling out his phone. “I’ll let Sharon know to send him away”

Bucky breathed a sigh of relief, giving Clint a thankful look.

A moment later the trailer door opened, but it was only Sharon this time.

“I am _so sorry”_ she immediately started, her expression pinched with remorse. “I had _no idea_ , I swear, I wouldn’t have even brought him here if I knew”

“It’s fine” he said, smiling tightly. Well, it wasn’t _fine_ , but he knew she hadn’t done it on purpose. How could she have known last week’s Steve was the same guy as her cousin?

She had both hands over her face now, having slouched down in the seat opposite from him and Clint. “Oh my god, I vouched for him to Fury. I’m the reason he’s here!”

“It’s fine, really. You didn’t know, and it’s- he didn’t actually do anything, you know? I just got surprised is all” Bucky tried to dismiss.

“Yeah, he told me what happened” she said dejectedly, then huffed in anger. “I can’t believe he didn’t tell me about this before. It’s kind of a big deal!”

Bucky hummed awkwardly, looking away. It wasn’t a good sign that Steve had kept that hidden, but maybe… he had a reason? He’d seemed nice at the time, and Sharon had been so confident he was a decent person.

Then again, maybe he wasn’t so good, going by what the cards said. People had all sorts of veneers; Bucky knew that better than most.

“Anyway, he said he understands if you want space. He also said he’d like to talk later if it’s okay with you”

“I’d rather not” he said without hesitation. The farther they stayed away from each other, the better. “No offense to him, I’m sure he’s great, but. Yeah” Bucky mumbled.

Sharon didn’t look all too happy about that, though whether it was because of Bucky or her cousin, he wasn’t quite sure.

“Yeah man, you do you” Clint said like he was handing out sage advice, playing with the energy drink by balancing it on two fingers, not looking at either of them.

There was a moment of silence, and then Sharon blew out another breath. “I’m really sorry about all this” she said again.

Bucky waved her off. “It’s fine” he muttered, except he had a feeling the apologies weren’t over yet.

None of that mattered though. He had more pressing things to worry about- namely Steve, and how the hell was he going to deal with him?

_At your will, the Prisoner will be bound for life._

Bucky had gone over the words used- or the ones he could remember- and there wasn’t much to go on, but ‘ _at your will’_ was something he could grasp at least. It meant there was choice, one that Steve was going to make that would either make or break the rest of the fortune.

_You will be confined to your fate. You will be bound to your death._

It was pretty easy to understand the consequences of it- Steve’s actions would result in something awful for Bucky.

He didn’t know what, exactly- the cards were vague and death could mean a lot of things. He could be kicked out of the carnival to rot in the streets; get cut and die from infection; sent to prison for life and in four years get shived in the throat.

A lot of things counted as death where the cards were concerned- everyone died eventually, and it was more so the quality of it that the deck cared about. Time was circumstantial.

All he knew was that _something_ was going to happen between him and Steve, and whether it ended well or not would be at the other man’s whim.

Sharon and Clint were talking around him, but Bucky only half listened and made token contributions to the conversation. His mind was busy elsewhere, thinking of what he could possibly do about the oncoming doom he was heading towards- or coming at him, more accurately.

Bucky fingered the cards, feeling a stab of anxiety. There was no way to know for sure what was right- avoidance, confrontation, it was all the same risk. Anything Bucky did could just as likely lead to his demise as prevent it. He didn’t have an answer to this.

All he knew was that Steve was here now, and his and Bucky’s fates were on a collision course.

And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

* * *

Steve slunk back to his trailer, navigating off Sharon’s directions and the noise of the generator as a guiding point.

That had been… a mess. He knew he’d bump into James eventually, but he hadn’t expected it to go like _that_.

The sight of James’ panic had been painfully familiar, and it hurt knowing that he was the cause of it.

He’d stumbled out of the trailer as soon as Bucky started yelling, Sharon staying a minute before meeting him outside, a look of worry and mortification on her face.

“ _Oh my god, Steve, I’m really sorry about that” she said, but Steve waved to stop her._

“ _No, no, I should’ve- it’s my fault”_

He’d gone on to explain how he’d met James the previous week and how their encounter had ended. To say Sharon had conflicting feelings was an understatement.

“ _Steve!” she hissed, smacking him on the shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell me?! I’ve been- oh my god” she covered her mouth with her hands, her eyes going wide. “I’ve been telling people about you!”_

_He furrowed his brow. “Is that bad?”_

“ _Yes, yes you idiot! Everyone was talking about last week, a lot of them think you hurt him!” she said, motioning back to the trailer. “When they find out my cousin is the_ Rescue Guy _, they’re gonna… I don’t even know! And I brought you right to him without any warning! He’s having a panic attack because of me! Oh my god!” she gasped, pacing away from Steve._

_He followed behind her. “No, no, Sharon, this isn’t your fault” he said quickly. “I didn’t tell you, that’s on me. You didn’t know, okay? I messed up, and I’m sorry”_

It had taken some time to calm her down, and then a little more as she cussed him out for his omission.

“ _I’m sorry” he said again, arms crossed and head cowed. “I thought I could work it out between us, I didn’t want to involve you”_

“ _Okay, Steve? Everyone’s going to be involved in this” she said in a tone of saying something obvious to an idiot. “We’re a traveling carnival, everyone lives two feet from someone else. The only thing that spreads faster than gossip is the fucking flu._ Everybody _knows what happened”_

_Steve swallowed. He figured the management would be aware, and maybe some coworkers- he hadn’t considered the entirety of the carnival._

“… _Oh”_

“ _Yeah; oh” she mimicked unhappily._

_They stood in an uncomfortable silence as the reality of the situation sunk in._

“ _Look, Sharon, I’m really sorry, and… and if it’s a problem, then maybe you shouldn’t be around me for a while” he tentatively suggested._

“ _What?”_

“ _Just tell people the truth: I didn’t tell you and you didn’t know. Let me handle the fallout”_

_Sharon crossed her arms, mouth twisting. “I’m not throwing you under the bus like that”_

“ _You’re not though- it’s just the truth of what happened” he said, and then when her expression seemed unconvinced, he added, “And I really don’t want to be one getting you in trouble”_

“ _Well it’s not gonna be so much_ trouble _as it’s gonna be some bad high school politics” she amended distastefully. “Nobody’s gonna want to be your friend except the temp labourers, and they’re in a whole different clique from performers, so they might not even take you”_

“ _Just let me work it out. Please” he begged. He’d already hurt one person, he didn’t want to drag his cousin down too. Especially when they’d only_ just _reconnected._

_She considered him for a moment, frowning. “… Fine,” she relented, “but I’m gonna fight the rumours about you” she added, chin tilted up at him. “I’ve heard the story from both ends so I know you didn’t do anything, but just be aware that people think you hurt him- even though he keeps telling everyone you didn’t. But that’s a whole other problem” she waved away._

“ _Thank you” he said earnestly._

She’d gotten a text shortly after that, only telling Steve- to his relief- that James was doing better, but it would be best if they called the night there.

An awkward goodbye and a quick trip to his car for his overnight bag later, and here he was coming up on his assigned quarters.

He stepped in cautiously, feeling a second of relief that he’d gotten the right trailer when he spotted Daniel still at the table, now playing with the cards on his own in something that looked like solitaire.

He looked up as Steve entered, giving him a short nod before returning to the spread. There was a subdued feel to the air now; an underlying tension Steve couldn’t name.

“Guess I missed the game, huh?”

Daniel shrugged. “Another night maybe”

“Sure”

Steve walked past when nothing else was said, the thrum of tension sending a shiver down his spine. At the back were the bunks, the bags that had previously been on his mattress now moved to the floor. The bunk below him was occupied by John, who was emanating a scent of alcohol strong enough to make Steve’s lips curl. He hoped it didn’t waft upwards during the night.

He pulled out a thin blanket and pillow from his bag, setting the rest of his pack at the wall near his feet. He didn’t think he’d be robbed, but he also didn’t know these men, and Sharon had warned it was better safe than sorry.

He set his bed, then climbed up usig the small rungs near the wall that vaguely acted as a ladder, crawling into his chest-high bunk. It was barely wide enough to be acceptable, but the length was laughably inadequate for his height.

It took some finagling, but he worked out that his options were either curling up with his knees hanging off the side, or stretching out with his feet dangling in the air.

Not ideal, but… he’d had worse.

As he lay there with the sound of the generator vibrating through the walls and the quiet _shiff_ of Daniel playing cards, his thoughts circled around to what he was going to do.

He was starting with a bad reputation even before he’d arrived, and he didn’t know what that would mean for him. It obviously wasn’t enough to cost his the position or he would’ve been turned away when he showed up, but that was about all he could say for it.

He didn’t need to be friends with everybody, but he’d like to make at least a _few_ connections beyond just Sharon- and while he appreciated the effort she was going through, he had to do a lot of it on his own. He resolved to show people that he wasn’t the bad guy he’d been painted as, though how exactly he’d do that was still unclear.

As embarrassing as it was, he hadn’t had to make new friends in a _long_ time, and he’d never been particularly good at it to begin with. People usually came to _him_ with friendship, not the other way around, and that was a rare enough occurrence on its own.

He had a distinct feeling of being back in high school where, everybody knew him for the wrong reasons, and a familiar sense of hopelessness threatened to rise back from the depths he’d buried it in.

_No, not this time._

He wouldn’t fall back on old habits- he wouldn’t turn into a loner again. He was an adult for god’s sake. He’d turned himself around in college, and he would do it again here.

He’d talk to people, and he’d show them who he really was- and if that didn’t work, then he’d swallow his pride and go to Sharon for help.

He would also try to get to know James better, too. Maybe he was being too optimistic and that bridge had burned down for good, but he needed to try. Not just because a friendship with James would go a long way in negating his first impression, but because something about James just made Steve want to know him better.

That night in the tent, before it had all gone to hell, had been the highlight of Steve’s evening. He’d felt something with James, even if he hadn’t recognized it at the time.

The easy banter between them, the way he’d laughed and put Steve at ease. The hypnotizing way he shuffled the cards with painted nails that kept catching Steve’s gaze.

And those eyes. Those kind eyes.

There was something there that compelled him. Even seeing them earlier, painfully distressed as they’d been, had drawn Steve in.

There’d been a palpable sense of fear in that small space- one that Steve felt for the brief seconds he’d been there, and he’d couldn’t let it go.

To be the source of that fear hurt in an indescribable way- as if Steve had turned into one of the bullies he hated so much. He wanted- no, he _needed_ \- to set things right between them.

So that was his plan, then. Make some friends, fix his reputation, and most importantly of all, fix the divide between him and James.

He’d dealt with so many hardships in the past, and he’d built a life out of the ruins of his adolescence. He’d shed his small frame and worked hard for his newfound health. He’d gone from homeless to a mortgaged house in the suburbs. He’d gone from eighteen without a high school diploma to getting his GED to getting an actual goddamn college degree. He’d made a name for himself in freelance graphic design in under two years, and he’d certainly done well for himself with it.

_This is nothing_ , he told himself. He had nothing to lose and all the reason to get ahead. His life had stagnated, sure, but the realization had only motivated him to do better. He was here for a purpose, and he was going to work to achieve it with all he had.

And there was nothing anybody could do to stop him.


End file.
